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THE 


'JtT. 


BOSTON  BOOK. 


BEING  SPECIMENS  OF 


METROPOLITAN  LITERATURE. 


EDITED  BY 

J5? 

B.  B.  THATCHER. 


BOSTON: 

LIGHT  & STEARNS,  1 CORNHILL. 

183  7. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  BILL,  MASS, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1836,  by  Light  & 
Stearns,  in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachu- 
setts. 


PREFACE, 


The  Publishers  of  the  Boston  Book,  encouraged 
to  continue  it  for  another  season,  by  the  favor 
with  which  their  first  experiment  on  the  plan 
was  received,  and  not  insensible  of  the  fresh 
inducements  thereby  furnished  for  additional 
efforts  to  deserve  their  success,  offer  this  volume 
to  the  public  with  the  confident  expectation  that 
their  renewed  labors  will  be  rewarded  by  a still 
warmer  approval.  The  Editor,  who,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  his  esteemed  friend  and  predecessor,  has 
been  invited  to  aid  them,  and  has  endeavored 
according  to  his  ability  to  do  so,  embraces  the 
earliest  occasion  to  acknowledge  his  obligations 
to  the  manner  in  which  that  gentleman’s  task 
was  performed,  as  well  as  to  the  just  popularity 
which  attended  it,  for  the  auspices  under  which 


IV 


PREFACE. 


he  now  submits  his  own  share  of  the  enterprize, 
to  its  former  patrons,  and  to  the  public  at  large. 
At  the  same  time,  he  may  add  with  propriety, 
that  if,  in  the  details  of  the  execution  he  has 
been  able  to  improve  upon  the  beginning  of  the 
series,  in  any  of  those  particulars  respecting 
which  such  a beginning  was  of  necessity  open, 
as  it  was  candidly  subjected,  to  fair  criticism,  this 
improvement  he  is  conscious  he  owes,  in  a great 
degree,  to  the  friendly  discussion  of  the  character 
of  the  book,  among  its  friends,  excited  by  their 
interest  itself  in  its  merits. 

No  explanation  of  our  design,  we  presume,  will 
be  required,  additional  to  what  has  already  been 
given;  it  being  in  that  connection  sufficient  to 
remark,  that  no  very  important  deviation  from 
it  has  been  considered  advisable.  The  second 
volume,  therefore,  is  presented,  like  the  first,  as 
a compilation  of  specimens — or,  essentially,  a 
specimen,  in  the  aggregate — of  the  modern  litera- 
ture of  the  Metropolis  of  the  North.  How  far  the 
performance  is  adequate  to  this  plan,  the  Editor 
of  course  will  not  undertake  to  decide.  How  far 


PREFACE. 


V 


it  will  be  deemed  to  be  so  by  the  public,  remains 
to  be  seen.  They  will  perceive,  however,  we 
trust,  that  while  it  does  not  assume  to  be  com- 
plete, nor  to  deprecate  reasonable  strictures  in 
any  respect,  it  has  preserved  a goodly  portion  of 
the  general  spirit — the  liberal,  republican,  na- 
tional, and  Christian  spirit — which  breathed  in  its 
pages  before ; and  that  it  does  something  like 
justice,  in  this  respect,  to  the  City,  as  emphati- 
cally a Bostonian  Book.  It  is  hoped,  also,  that 
we  shall  not  be  found,  in  a primary  attention  to 
this  substantial  qualification,  to  have  forgotten 
the  condiments  of  vivacity  and  variety  proper  for 
recommending  that  to  notice,  and  for  giving  it  a 
tolerable  relish  at  the  feast.  Here  the  Editor  is 
again  indebted  to  his  plan,  and  especially  to  the 
range  into  a wide  and  rich  region  which  it  al- 
lowed him.  If  the  publication  of  one  volume, 
comprising  so  many  of  our  gems,  forestalled  him 
to  a certain  extent  in  the  preparation  of  this,  it 
did  not,  after  all,  so  much  impoverish  as  it  em- 
barrassed him.  It  occasioned,  in  the  phrase  of 
the  day,  only  a transient  panic,  and  consequently 


1* 


VI 


PREFACE. 


a trivial  pressure,  in  the  literary  market.  Real 
estate  and  property  at  large  were  in  fact  rising, 
the  while,  by  the  increased  demand  for  it ; and, 
we  are  free  to  say,  it  has  been  among  the  princi- 
pal sources  of  the  satisfaction  we  have  taken,  in 
the  unambitious  though  not  a little  laborious 
process  of  compilation  required  in  such  a case  as 
this,  thus,  (as  the  earlier  drafts  on  the  common 
fund  had  compelled  him,)  to  ascertain,  by  actual 
trial,  how  handsomely  that  Bank  was  able  to 
bear  the  “run.” 

If  we  have  not  succeeded  in  showing  all  this, 
we  admit,  then,  it  is  our  fault.  .Exploration  has 
disclosed  plentiful  resources.  Names  inadver- 
tently omitted  before,  or  crowded  out,  have  been 
gladly  introduced ; and  at  least  some  of  the  new 
treasures,  especially,  which  we  have  brought  for- 
ward to  mix  with  the  old , wear,  if  we  mistake  not, 
an  aspect  of  sterling  freshness,  which  proves  at 
once  that  if  they  may  have  been  comparatively 
“ to  dumb  forgetfulness  a prey,”  they  neither 
have  deserved,  nor  will  continue,  to  be  so. 


PREFACE. 


vii 

We  shall  not  need  to  apologize  for  the  omission 
of  many  articles  which  we  should  have  been 
proud  to  include;  and  of  several,  among  the  num- 
ber, by  authors  whose  contributions  were  last  year 
availed  of  to  great  advantage.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  account  for  this  on  the  republican  prin- 
ciple of  rotation — agreeably  to  the  professedly  re- 
publican scheme  of  the  work ; although  it  was  in 
fact  the  only  way  by  which  justice  could  be  ren- 
dered in  cases  where  it  had  been  with  that  view 
deferred.  It  regarded  also  the  other  principle  of 
our  plan,  which  looked  to  a discretionary  con- 
tinuation of  the  work.  Nor,  whatever  errors  have 
occurred  in  the  delicate  task  of  selection,  where 
selection  of  some  sort  was  so  rigidly  required, 
ought  we  perhaps  to  regret  the  sacrifices — many 
of  them  unexpected  till  almost  the  completion  of 
the  volume — that  have  enabled  us  to  secure 
the  interest  which  we  trust  may  accrue  to  it 
from  the  increased  novelty  of  some  of  its  con- 
tents. Among  these,  the  fine  essay  on  American 
History  was  kindly  furnished  us  in  the  manu- 
script, as  were  several  other  valuable  composi- 


PREFACE. 


viii 

tions,  to  which,  in  respect  to  that  circumstance,  a 
place,  and  sometimes  a precedence,  was  duly 
awarded. 

With  this  preamble,  the  Boston  Book  is  cheer- 
fully submitted  once  more.  If  it  be  not  found 
faultless,  we  shall  have  the  consolation  of  con- 
sidering that  we  did  not  propose  that  it  should 
be;  as  well  as  that,  perhaps,  of  the  future  benefit 
arising  from  the  generous  and  fair  criticism  which 
we  invite,  and  to  which  only  we  feel  ourselves 
to  be  exposed.  Beyond  this,  we  shall  be  more 
than  satisfied  with  the  approbation  of  the  impar- 
tial, and  the  indulgent,  whom  we  confess  we 
have  chiefly  endeavored  to  please. 


Boston,  Oct.  8,  1836. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Tri-Mountain — by  H.  T.  Tuckerman, 13 

The  Progress  of  Discovery-— by  Edward  Everett, 16 

The  Family  Meeting — by  Charles  Sprague, 25 

Greenough’s  Group  of  the  Angel  and  Child — by  Washington  Allston,  27 

The  Good  Match — by  Mrs.  Hale, 30 

The  Comet — by  O.  W.  Holmes, 37 

Poets — Past  and  Present — by  Albert  Pike, 40 

The  Fountain  of  Beauty — by  Mrs.  Child, 43 

Daybreak — by  Richard  H.  Dana, 54 

The  Belfry  Pigeon — by  N.  P.  Willis, 58 

Our  Village  Poet — by  Mrs.  Sullivan, 60 

The  Passion  for  Life — by  I.  McLellan,  Jr., 70 

New  England — by  J.  G.  Whittier, 73 

Spiritual  Freedom — by  Wm.  E.  Channing, 75 

The  White  Hare — by  Mrs.  Wells, 80 

Stanzas — by  Mrs.  Gilman, 83 

A Thanksgiving  Dream — by  Richard  Hildreth, 85 

Hampton  Beach — by  George  Lunt, 93 

The  Love  of  the  Supreme  Being — by  Jacob  Abbott, 96 

The  Exile  at  Rest — by  John  Pierpont, 101 

Mortal  and  Immortal — by  R.  C.  Waterston, 103 

Keeping  up  Appearances — by  Leonard  Withington, 105 

u Blow,  Gentle  Gale  ” — by  Park  Benjamin, 115 

Our  Yankee  Girls — by  O.  W.  Holmes, 117 


X 


CONTENTS. 


The  Little  Beach  Bird — by  Richard  H.  Dana, 119 

American  History — by  Jared  Sparks, 121 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty — by  Rufus  Dawes, 142 

The  Household — by  I.  C.  Pray,  Jr., 144 

Tailors— by  N.  P.  Willis, 146 

The  Bucket — by  Samuel  Woodworth, 150 

The  Spirit  of  New  England — by  John  S.  J.  Gardiner, 152 

The  Dead — by  Grenville  Mellen, 156 

Poetry — by  Orville  Dewey, 159 

The  Last  Bouquet — by  H.  T.  Tuckerman, 163 

The  Idle  Boys — by  J.  O.  Sargent, 165 

Barbers — by  S.  P.  Holbrook, 167 

I See  Thee  Still — -by  Charles  Sprague, 172 

The  Leaf — by  S.  G.  Goodrich,  . 174 

Easy  Joe  Bruce— by  H.  H.  Weld, 176 

The  Fields  of  War — by  I.  McLellan,  Jr., 181 

Rockall — by  E.  Sargent,  Jr., 184 

Impressions  of  the  Mother  Land — by  A.  H.  Everett, 187 

A Word  for  the  Farmers — by  T.  G.  Fessenden, 194 

Hints  to  Students— by  Lyman  Beecher, 198 

Seasons  of  Prayer — by  Henry  Ware,  Jr., 208 

Miseries  of  an  Invalid— by  Geo.  S.  Hillard, 211 

The  Confessional — by  N.  P.  Willis, 224 

Mount  Auburn — by  Samuel  Kettel, 228 

Lexington  Ode — by  John  Pierpont, 235 

Washington’s  Remains — by  George  Lunt, 237 

Old  Ironsides — by  O.  W.  Holmes, 239 

Women- — by  John  Neal, 240 

The  Spell  of  Love — by  Mrs.  Osgood, 245 

Light  for  the  Blind — by  Miss  Foster, 247 

The  Dark  Side — by  Mrs.  Davis, 249 

Lines — by  N.  L.  Frothingham, 252 

The  Man  of  Expedients — by  Samuel  Gilman, 254 

Flowers — by  Henry  Pickering, 259 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


American  Influence — by  Francis  Way  land, 262 

The  Silent  Farewell — by  Thomas  Power, 268 

The  Land's-End— by  Samuel  Woodworth, 269 

Tight  Lacing — by  Wm.  A.  Alcott, 270 

Domestic  Love — by  Park  Benjamin, 275 

Christmas — by  William  Crosvvcll, 277 

Children — by  R.  C.  Waterston, 278 

To  a Bereaved  Mother — by  John  Quincy  Adams,  . 281 

Hints  to  Editors — by  Wm.  J.  Snelling, 284 

Indian  Summer — by  H.  F.  Harrington, 291 

Changes — by  J.  O.  Rockwell, 293 

To  the  Bunker  Hill  Veterans— -by  Daniel  Webster, 295 

Song  of  the  Revolution — by  T.  Gray,  Jr., 300 

Philip  of  Mount  Hope — by  J.  O.  Sargent, 302 

Pleasures  of  Science — by  Wm.  M.  Rogers, 304 

Solitary  Hours — by  Geo.  W.  Light,  312 

News-Making — by  S.  H.  Jenks, 314 

Rosalie — by  Washington  Alls't&ft, 316 

The  Poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans — by  B.  B.  Thatcher, 318 

Visit  to  an  Old  Play-Place — by  J.  W.  Miller, 332 

A Modern  Greek — by  S.  G.  Howe,.  336 

Lines  for  my  Cousin's  Album- — by  Horatio  Hale, 341 

Shaking  Hands — by  Edward  Everett, 343 

Temperance  Hymn — by  L.  M.  Sargent, 349 

Thanksgiving — by  J.  T.  Buckingham, 351 

The  Pilgrims'  Land — by  Charles  Sprague, t 356 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


THE  TRI-MOUNTAIN. 

By  H.  T.  Tuckerman. 

Through  Time’s  dim  atmosphere,  behold 
Those  ancient  hills  again, — 

Rising  to  Fancy’s  eager  view, 

In  solitude — as  when 
Beneath  the  summer  firmament, 

So  silently  of  yore, 

The  shadow  of  each  passing  cloud 
Their  rugged  bosoms  bore  ! 

They  sloped  in  pathless  grandeur  then 
Down  to  the  murmuring  sea, 

And  rose  upon  the  woodland  plain 
In  lonely  majesty. 

The  breeze,  at  noontide,  wdiispered  soft 
Their  emerald  knolls  among, 

And  midnight’s  wind,  amid  their  heights, 
Its  wildest  dirges  sung. 


2 


14 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


As,  on  their  brow,  the  forest  king 
Paused  in  his  weary  way, 

From  far  below  his  quick  ear  caught 
The  moaning  of  the  bay. 

The  dry  leaves,  fanned  by  Autumn’s  breath, 
Along  their  ridges  crept ; 

And  snow-wreaths,  like  storm-whitened  waves, 
Around  them  rudely  swept. 

For  ages,  o’er  their  swelling  sides, 

Grew  the  wild  flowers  of  spring, 

And  stars  smiled  down,  and  dew-founts  poured 
Their  gentle  offering. 

The  moonbeams  played  upon  their  peaks, 

And  at  their  feet  the  tide  ; 

And  thus,  like  altar-mounts  they  stood, 

By  nature  sanctified. 

Now,  when  to  mark  their  beacon  forms 
The  seaman  turns  his  gaze, 

It  quails,  as  roof  and  spire  and  dome 
Flash  in  the  sun’s  bright  rays. 

On  those  wild  hills  a thousand  homes 
Are  reared  in  proud  array, 

And  argosies  float  safely  o’er 
That  lone  and  isle-gemmed  bay. 

Those  shadowy  mounds,  so  long  untrod, 

By  countless  feet  are  pressed  ; 

And  hosts  of  loved  ones  meekly  sleep 
Below  their  teeming  breast. 


THE  TRI-MOUNTAIN. 


15 


A world’s  unnumbered  voices  float 
Within  their  narrow  bound, — 
Love’s  gentle  tone,  and  traffic’s  hum, 
And  music’s  thrilling  sound. 

There  Liberty  first  found  a tongue, 
Beneath  New  England’s  sky, 

And  there  her  earliest  martyrs  stood, 
And  nerved  themselves  to  die. 

And  long,  upon  these  ancient  hills, 
By  glory’s  light  enshrined, 

May  rise  the  dwellings  of  the  free, 
The  city  of  the  mind. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  DISCOVERY. 


By  Edward  Ever*ett. 


We  are  confirmed  in  the  conclusion  that  the 
popular  diffusion  of  knowledge  is  favorable  to 
the  growth  of  science,  when  we  reflect  that,  vast 
as  the  domain  of  learning  is,  and  extraordinary 
as  is  the  progress  which  has  been  made  in  almost 
every  branch,  we  may  assume  as  certain,  I will 
not  say  that  we  are  in  its  infancy,  but  that  the 
discoveries  which  have  been  already  made,  won- 
derful as  they  are,  bear  but  a small  proportion  to 
those  that  will  hereafter  be  effected ; and  that  in 
everything  that  belongs  to  the  improvement  of 
man,  there  is  yet  a field  of  investigation  broad 
enough  to  satisfy  the  most  eager  thirst  for  know- 
ledge, and  diversified  enough  to  suit  every  variety 
of  taste,  order  of  intellect,  or  degree  of  qualifica- 
tion. For  the  peaceful  victories  of  the  mind, 
that  unknown  and  unconquered  world,  for  which 
Alexander  wept,  is  forever  near  at  hand;  hidden 
indeed,  as  yet,  behind  the  veil  with  which  nature 
shrouds  her  undiscovered  mysteries,  but  stretch- 
ing all  along  the  confines  of  the  domain  of  know- 
ledge, sometimes  nearest  when  least  suspected. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  DISCOVERY. 


21 


and  boldly  grasp  the  idea  that  the  globe  is  round. 
The  two  truths  are  apparently  without  connec- 
tion ; but  in  their  application  to  practice,  they 
are  intimately  associated.  Hobbes  says  that  Dr. 
Harvey,  the  illustrious  discoverer  of  the  circula- 
tion of  the  blood,  is  the  only  author  of  a great 
discovery,  who  ever  lived  to  see  it  universally 
adopted.  To  the  honor  of  subsequent  science, 
this  remark  could  not  now,  with  equal  truth,  be 
made.  Nor  was  Harvey  himself  without  some 
painful  experience  of  the  obstacles,  arising  from 
popular  ignorance,  against  which  truth  sometimes 
forces  its  way  to  general  acceptance.  When  he 
first  proposed  the  beautiful  doctrine,  his  practice 
fell  off ; people  would  not  continue  to  trust  their 
lives  in  the  hands  of  such  a dreamer.  When 
it  was  firmly  established  and  generally  received, 
one  of  his  opponents  published  a tract  de  circulo 
sanguinis  Salomoneo , and  proved  from  the  twelfth 
chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  that  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  was  no  secret  in  the  time  of  Solomon. 
The  whole  doctrine  of  the  Reformation  may  be 
found  in  the  writings  of  Wiclif;  but  neither  he 
nor  his  age  felt  the  importance  of  his  principles, 
nor  the  consequences  to  which  they  led.  Huss 
had  studied  the  writings  of  Wiclif  in  manuscript, 
and  was  in  no  degree  behind  him,  in  the  boldness 
with  which  he  denounced  the  papal  usurpations. 
But  his  voice  was  not  heard  beyond  the  moun- 
tains of  Bohemia ; and  he  expired  in  agony  at 
the  stake,  and  his  ashes  were  scattered  upon  the 


22 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Rhine.  A hundred  years  passed  away.  Luther, 
like  an  avenging  angel,  burst  upon  the  world, 
and  denounced  the  corruptions  of  the  church, 
and  rallied  the  host  of  the  faithful,  with  a voice 
which  might  almost  call  up  those  ashes  from 
their  watery  grave,  and  form  and  kindle  them 
again  into  a living  witness  to  the  truth. 

Thus  Providence,  which  has  ends  innumerable 
to  answer,  in  the  conduct  of  the  physical  and 
intellectual,  as  well  as  of  the  moral  world,  some- 
times permits  the  great  discoverers  fully  to  enjoy 
their  fame,  sometimes  to  catch  but  a glimpse  of 
the  extent  of  their  achievements,  and  sometimes 
sends  them  dejected  and  heart-broken  to  the  grave, 
unconscious  of  the  importance  of  their  own  dis- 
coveries, and  not  merely  undervalued  by  their  con- 
temporaries, but  by  themselves.  It  is  plain  that 
Copernicus,  like  his  great  contemporary,  Colum- 
bus, though  fully  conscious  of  the  boldness  and 
the  novelty  of  his  doctrine,  saw  but  a part  of  the 
changes  it  was  to  effect  in  science.  After  har- 
boring in  his  bosom  for  long,  long  years  that  per- 
nicious heresy — the  solar  system — he  died  on  the 
day  of  the  appearance  of  his  book  from  the  press. 
The  closing  scene  of  his  life,  with  a little  help 
from  the  imagination,  would  furnish  a noble  sub- 
ject for  an  artist.  For  thirty-five  years  he  has 
revolved  and  matured  in  his  mind  his  system  of 
the  heavens.  A natural  mildness  of  disposition, 
bordering  on  timidity,  a reluctance  to  encounter 
controversy,  and  a dread  of  persecution,  have  led 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  DISCOVERY. 


23 


him  to  withhold  his  work  from  the  press,  and  to 
make  known  his  system  but  to  a few  confidential 
disciples  and  friends.  At  length  he  draws  near 
his  end ; he  is  seventy-three  years  of  age,  and 
he  yields  his  work  on  “ The  Revolutions  of  the 
Heavenly  Orbs”  to  his  friends  for  publication. 
The  day  at  last  has  come,  on  which  it  is  to  be 
ushered  into  the  world.  It  is  the  twenty-fourth 
of  May,  1543.  On  that  day — the  effect,  no  doubt, 
of  the  intense  excitement  of  his  mind,  operating 
upon  an  exhausted  frame — an  effusion  of  blood 
brings  him  to  the  gates  of  the  grave.  His  last 
hour  has  come ; he  lies  stretched  upon  the  couch 
from  which  he  will  never  rise,  in  his  apartment 
at  the  Canonry  at  Frauenberg,  East  Prussia. 
The  beams  of  the  setting  sun  glance  through  the 
gothic  windows  of  his  chamber  ; near  his  bed- 
side is  the  armillary  sphere,  which  he  has  con- 
trived to  represent  his  theory  of  the  heavens;  his 
picture,  painted  by  himself,  the  amusement  of 
his  earlier  years,  hangs  before  him;  beneath  it 
are  his  astrolabe  and  other  imperfect  astronomical 
instruments;  and  around  him  are  gathered  his 
sorrowing  disciples.  The  door  of  the  apartment 
opens  ; — the  eye  of  the  departing  sage  is  turned 
to  see  who  enters : it  is  a friend,  who  brings  him 
the  first  printed  copy  of  his  immortal  treatise. 
He  knows  that  in  that  book,  he  contradicts  all 
that  had  ever  been  distinctly  taught,  by  former 
philosophers  ; he  knows  that  he  has  rebelled 
against  the  sway  of  Ptolemy,  which  the  scientific 


24 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


world  had  acknowledged  for  a thousand  years ; 
he  knows  that  the  popular  mind  will  be  shocked 
by  his  innovations ; he  knows  that  the  attempt 
will  be  made  to  press  even  religion  into  the  ser- 
vice against  him;  but  he  knows  that  his  book 
is  true.  He  is  dying,  but  he  leaves  a glorious 
truth,  as  his  dying  bequest  to  the  world.  He 
bids  the  friend  who  has  brought  it  place  himself 
between  the  window  and  his  bedside,  that  the 
sun’s  rays  may  fall  upon  the  precious  volume, 
and  he  may  behold  it  once  more,  before  his  eye 
grows  dim.  He  looks  upon  it,  takes  it  in  his 
hands,  presses  it  to  his  breast,  and  expires.  But 
no,  he  is  not  wholly  gone.  A smile  lights  up  his 
dying  countenance ; a beam  of  returning  intelli- 
gence kindles  in  his  eye;  his  lips  move ; and  the 
friend,  who  leans  over  him,  can  hear  him  faintly 
murmur  the  beautiful  sentiments  which  the  Chris- 
tian lyrist  of  a later  age  has  so  finely  expressed 
in  verse; 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell,  with  all  your  feeble  light  j 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon,  pale  empress  of  the  night  5 
And  thou,  refulgent  orb  of  day,  in  brighter  flames  arrayed, 

My  soul  which  springs  beyond  thy  sphere,  no  more  demands  thy  aid. 
Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust  of  my  divine  abode, 

The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts,  where  I shall  reign  with  God. 


So  died  the  great  Columbus  of  the  heavens. 


THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 


By  Charles  Sprague. 


Written  on  occasion  of  the  accidental  meeting-  of  all  the  surviving 
members  of  a family. 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Father,  Mother, 

Sister,  Brother, 

All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 

Each  chair  is  filled — we  ’re  all  at  home  ; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come  : 

It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we  ’re  found  : 

Bless  then  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 

F or  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 

Let  gentle  peace  assert  her  power, 

And  kind  affection  rule  the  hour  ; 

We’re  all — all  here. 

We’re  not  all  here  ! 

Some  are  away — the  dead  ones  dear, 

Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 

And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 

Fate,  with  a stern,  relentless  hand, 

Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band  : 

3 


26 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Some  like  a night-flash  passed  away, 

And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day; 

The  quiet  grave-yard — some  lie  there — 

And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share — 

We  ’re  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Even  they — the  dead — though  dead,  so  dear 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 

Brings  hack  their  faded  forms  to  view. 

How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well  remembered  face  appears  ! 

We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past, 

From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast, 

We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold, 
They  ’re  round  us  as  they  were  of  old — 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Father,  Mother, 

Sister,  Brother, 

Youthat  I love  with  love  so  dear. 

This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said  ; 

Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead ; 

And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round, 

Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 

Oh  ! then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a life  of  peace  below  ; 

So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 

May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 

W e ’re  all — all  here  ! 


'BOSTON  rOU-FGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HIU-,  MASS. 


GREENOUGH’S  GROUP  OF  THE  ANGEL 
AND  CHILD. 


By  Washington  Allston. 


I stood  alone  ; nor  word,  nor  other  sound, 

Broke  the  mute  solitude  that  closed  me  round  ; 

As  when  the  air  doth  take  her  midnight  sleep, 

Leaving  the  wintry  stars  her  watch  to  keep, 

So  slept  she  now  at  noon.  But  not  alone 
My  spirit  then  : a light  within  me  shone 
That  was  not  mine  ; and  feelings  undefined, 

And  thoughts  flowed  in  upon  me  not  my  own. 

’T  was  that  deep  mystery — for  aye  unknown — 

The  living  presence  of  another’s  mind. 

Another  mind  was  there — the  gift  of  few — 

That  by  its  own  strong  will  can  all  that ’s  true 
In  its  own  nature  unto  others  give, 

And  mingling  life  with  life,  seem  there  to  live. 

I felt  it  now  in  mine  ; and  oh  ! how  fair, 

How  beautiful  the  thoughts  that  met  me  there — 
Visions  of  Love  and  Purity  and  Truth ! 

Though  form  distinct  had  each,  they  seemed,  as ’t  were, 
Embodied  all  of  one  celestial  air — 

To  beam  forever  in  coequal  youth. 


28 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


And  thus  I learned — as  in  the  mind  they  moved — 
These  stranger  Thoughts  the  one  the  other  loved  ; 

That  Purity  loved  Truth,  because ’t  was  true, 

And  Truth,  because  ’t  was  pure,  the  first  did  woo  ; 
While  Love,  as  pure  and  true,  did  love  the  twain ; 
Then  Love  was  loved  of  them,  for  that  sweet  chain 
That  bound  them  all.  Thus  sure,  as  passionless, 
Their  love  did  grow,  till  one  harmonious  strain 
Of  melting  sounds  they  seemed ; then,  changed  again, 
One  angel  form  they  took — Self-Happiness. 

This  angel  form  the  gifted  Artist  saw, 

That  held  me  in  his  spell.  ’T  was  his  to  draw 
The  veil  of  sense,  and  see  the  immortal  race, 

The  Forms  spiritual,  that  know  not  place. 

He  saw  it  in  the  quarry,  deep  in  earth, 

And  stayed  it  by  his  will,  and  gave  it  birth 
E’en  to  the  world  of  sense  ; bidding  its  cell, 

The  cold,  hard  marble,  thus  in  plastic  girth 
The  shape  etherial  fix,  and  body  forth 
A being  of  the  skies — with  man  to  dwell. 

And  then  another  form  beside  it  stood  ; 

’T  was  one  of  this  our  earth — though  the  warm  blood 
Had  from  it  passed — exhaled  as  in  a breath 
Drawn  from  its  lips  by  the  cold  kiss  of  Death. 

Its  little  “ dream  of  human  life  ” had  fled ; 

And  yet  it  seemed  not  numbered  with  the  dead, 

But  one  emerging  to  a life  so  bright 
That,  as  the  wondrous  nature  o’er  it  spread, 

Its  very  consciousness  did  seem  to  shed 

Rays  from  within,  and  clothe  it  all  in  light. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  CHILD. 


29 


Now  touched  the  Angel  Form  its  little  hand, 
Turning  upon  it  with  a look  so  bland, 

And  yet  so  full  of  majesty,  as  less 
Than  holy  natures  never  may  impress — 

And  more  than  proudest  guilt  unmoved  may  brook. 
The  Creature  of  the  Earth  now  felt  that  look, 

And  stood  in  blissful  awe — as  one  above 
Who  saw  his  name  in  the  Eternal  Book, 

And  Him  that  opened  it ; e’en  Him  that  took 
The  Little  Child,  and  blessed  it  in  his  love. 


3* 


THE  GOOD  MATCH. 


By  Mrs.  Hale. 


If  the  promotion  of  happiness  between  two  hu- 
man beings  be  considered  necessary  to  constitute 
a good  match , then  no  speculation  on  earth  is  so 
uncertain  as  the  matrimonial  speculation.  There 
can  never  be  any  precise  rules  laid  down  by 
which  we  may  estimate  the  qualities  of  mind,  and 
ascertain  how  any  two  souls,  when  compounded 
and  united  into  “one  flesh/7  will  harmonize  to- 
gether. And,  worse  still,  there  can  be  no  precise 
limits  assigned  to  the  passions  and  whims,  no 
boundaries  to  prevent  their  clashing,  where  we 
can  say  u hitherto  will  they  come,  but  no  far- 
ther.77 

A man  may  buy  a house,  or  farm,  or  cotton 
manufactory,  and  if  he  be  a judicious  man,  and 
examine  thoroughly,  and  calculate  the  cost,  and 
consider  all  the  local  circumstances,  he  may  feel 
pretty  secure  of  making  at  least  an  even  bargain. 
But  with  all  his  judiciousness  and  foresight,  he 
may  be  egregiously  hoaxed  when  he  comes  to 
make  that  contract  which  only  death  can  annul. 


THE  GOOD  MATCH. 


31 


A lady  may  have  an  excellent  taste,  and  select 
her  silks  and  muslins,  ribbons  and  laces,  feathers 
and  fans,  without  committing  one  blunder  in  the 
matching , and  yet  when  choosing  that  one  beloved, 
for  whom  all  this  array  of  fashion  was  selected, 
she  may  be  guilty  of  a mistake,  in  the  fitness  of 
character  to  secure  her  own  happiness,  which 
neither  art  nor  fashion  can  remedy. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  difficulty  which  attends  the 
investigation  of  the  qualities  of  mind  and  heart — 
the  character — that  makes  most  people  entirely 
neglect  such  things  when  choosing  their  partners. 
It  requires  thought,  and  they  hate  to  think ; it 
demands  reflection,  and  it  is  so  dull  to  reflect. 
But  every  gentleman  can  see  that  a lady  is  pretty, 
and  every  lady  can  hear  that  a gentleman  is  rich. 
It  was  solely  this  seeing  and  hearing  system  that 
decided  the  destiny  of  the  lovely  and  accomplished 
Miss  Caroline  Anderson.  In  preferring  the  man 
she  did  for  a husband,  however,  she  only  followed 
the  bias  of  her  education,  since  it  had  been, 
from  her  childhood,  industriously  instilled  into 
her  mind  by  her  mother,  that  she  was  very  beau- 
tiful ; and  though  she  was  poor,  yet  her  charms 
would  entitle  her  to  expect  to  marry  a rich  man  ; 
and  that  her  happiness,  the  happiness  of  residing 
in  an  elegant  house,  and  having  elegant  furniture, 
and  elegant  dresses,  and  above  all,  living  elegantly 
without  being  obliged  to  work , depended  on  her 
marrying  a rich  man. 


32 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


How  unfortunate  it  is  for  the  real  happiness  of 
young  females,  that  since  to  understand  “ house- 
hold cares75  is  such  an  indispensable  accomplish- 
ment for  women,  it  cannot  be  rendered  a fashion- 
able one  ! 

Though  Caroline  Anderson  longed  to  be  mis- 
tress of  a fine  house,  she  disdained  to  be  burdened 
with  any  of  those  domestic  cares  which  ought  to 
be  assumed  with  pride  and  pleasure  by  every  mis- 
tress of  a family.  And  so  she  consented  to  ac- 
cept a man  who  had  offered  himself,  because  she 
thought  he  was  rich  enough  to  maintain  her  like 
a lady;  the  term  lady,  meaning,  in  her  vocabu- 
lary, a woman  who  dressed  extravagantly,  visited 
or  received  company  continually,  and  did  nothing 
at  all.  The  sentiment  that  good  and  evil  are  al- 
ways mingled,  is  not  more  trite  than  true.  Caro- 
line Anderson  realized  it,  when,  in  the  midst  of 
her  ardent  anticipation  of  the  felicity  which  the 
riches  she  was  about  to  possess  must  confer,  one 
shocking  idea  would  continually  intrude  to  mar 
the  picture. 

It  was  not  that  her  intended  husband  was  thirty 
years  older  than  herself,  and  very  plain, — gold  re- 
conciled her  to  these  objections.  But  oh,  he  had 
such  an  unsentimental  name  ! Often  and  often 
did  she  wish  it  had  been  Belville,  or  Delville,  or 
Melville,  or  any  name  that  ended  in  ville  ; or  Du- 
mont, or  Beaumont,  or  Bellamont,  or  some  name 
that  ended  in  mont ! But  it  was  nothing  but 


THE  GOOD  MATCH. 


33 


Crump  ! If  he  had  only  had  a title,  either  civil  or 
military — been  addressed  as  Major  Crump,  or 
Nathaniel  Crump,  Esq. — she  thought  she  could 
have  endured  it;  but  to  hear  him  called  Nat 
Crump — nothing  but  Nat  Crump — oh  ! she  did 
think  it  horrid.  “What’s  in  a name?”  Poor 
Caroline  thought  there  was  much ; and  when  she 
put  on  her  bridal  dress,  formed  of  materials  most 
rare  and  costly,  and  surveyed  herself  in  the  glass 
which  told  her  she  was  a most  charming  bride, 
beautiful  enough  to  be  a nvvel  heroine,  she  turned 
away  shuddering  at  the  thought  that  she  must, 
so  soon,  be  called  Mrs.  Crump  ! 

Mr.  Crump  was  not  aware  that  his  young  wife 
possessed  such  a delicate  sensitiveness  (it  is  diffi- 
cult to  describe  her  feelings  with  ene  word)  of 
nerve,  and  he  immediately  commenced  calling  her 
Mrs.  Crump,  Mrs.  Cramp,  without  mercy. 

It  was  in  vain  she  hinted  to  him  that  “ wife,” 
or  “ Caroline,”  would  please  her  better,  and  was 
all  the  fashion ; he  insisted  it  was  not  so  dignified 
- — and  the  very  day  after  they  were  married,  they 
both  became  highly  irritated ; she,  that  her  hus- 
band would  call  her  by  a name  she  disliked,  and 
he,  that  his  wife  would  not  like  the  name  by 
which  he  thought  it  proper  to  call  her. 

Mr.  Crump  was  one  of  your  pains-taking,  pen- 
ny-saving, proverb-loving  people.  He  had  ac- 
quired a large  property  by  a very  small  way  of 
traffic,  and  in  proportion  as  his  stores  had  increas- 
ed, it  seemed  as  if  his  mind  had  contracted ; at 


34 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


least  so  his  neighbors  insinuated.  But  pray  never 
attempt  to  gain  credit  as  a prophet,  by  predicting 
what  a man  will  do,  or  will  become,  especially  in 
our  free  country,  where,  as  soon  as  he  has  the 
means  of  “ living  genteel/’  the  blockhead  may  set 
up  for  the  gentleman.  Nat  Crump  found  he  was 
rich,  and  he  built  himself  an  elegant  house,  only 
he  took  care  to  build  it  as  cheap  as  possible;  and 
he  purchased  an  elegant  suit,  only  almost  every 
garment  had  to  be  made  a little  too  short,  or  too 
tight  for  the  fashion,  because  the  patterns  were 
too  scanty ; and  then  he  thought  if  he  could 
marry  a young,  handsome,  accomplished  girl,  he 
should  be  a happy  man  and  a gentleman.  He 
offered  himself  to  Miss  Caroline  Anderson  for  no 
forld,  but  only  that  she  was 


uuici  loaisuii  in  tuo  vv 


called  beautiful  and  fashionable ; in  short,  quite  a 
belle.  He  did  not  love  her  : he  loved  nothing  on 
earth,  save  his  money  and  himself  and  his  bay 
horse  ; but  he  thought  he  was  old  enough  to  have 
a wife,  and  that  he  should  be  considered  more  of 
a gentleman,  and  invited  to  parties,  &c.— and  so  he 
determined  to  marry.  And  he  offered  himself  to 
Miss  Caroline  Anderson.  The  world  said  it  would 
be  a good  match  for  Caroline ; her  friends  said  it 
would  be  a good  match,  and  she  thought  it  would 
he  a very  good  match.  It  is  true  she  had  some 
demurs  on  the  question.  One  was,  that  she  did 
not  like  Mr.  Nat  Crump  ; and  another  was,  that 
she  did  like  a gentleman  who  was  younger  and 
more  comely.  But  then  she  had  been  educated 


THE  GOOD  MATCH. 


35 


to  expect  to  marry  a rich  man,  and  the  one  who 
pleased  her,  though  industrious  and  respectable, 
happened  to  be  poor ; in  short,  he  was  not  a good 
match  : and  so  Miss  Caroline  accepted  the  offer  of 
Mr.  Nat  Crump,  and  became  Mrs.  Nat  Crump. 
u And  what’s  her  history  ? A blank  ? ” A blank 
indeed  of  happiness  and  usefulness — a blank  of 
conjugal  affection,  domestic  quiet,  and  rational 
felicity.  Mr.  Crump  wished  to  be  thought  a man 
of  fine  taste,  and  he  collected  pictures  and  orna- 
ments for  his  spacious  apartments,  and  invited 
large  parties,  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  his  taste  and  pictures  and  ornaments  ad- 
mired. But  there  was,  in  all  the  efforts  he  made 
to  be  distinguished,  that  perpetual  struggle  be- 
tween magnificence  in  idea,  and  meanness  in  de- 
tail, which  so  certainly  makes  the  ridiculous  in 
effect ; and  this  was  much  heightened  by  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  and  his  wife  displayed  their  char- 
acteristic qualities.  While  Mrs.  Crump  was  de- 
lightedly expatiating  on  the  beauties  of  a picture, 
by  some  of  the  great  masters  in  the  “ art  divine,” 
her  husband,  to  her  great  vexation,  would  be  sure 
to  point  to  some  defect  or  damage  in  the  piece, 
which  enabled  him  to  obtain  it  at  a little  cheaper 
rate.  And  then,  though  he  wished  to  make  a dis- 
play, he  never  parted  with  a cent  of  cash,  even 
for  necessaries  for  his  family,  willingly  ; and  this, 
as  she  had  married  him  only  for  the  pleasure  of 
spending  his  property,  she  resented  highly.  And 
she  called  him  mean,  and  he  called  her  extrava- 


36 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


gant ; she  wished  she  never  had  seen  him,  and  he 
wished  he  had  never  married  her.  He  was  old 
and  fretful,  and  die  was  young  and  wilful ; he 
wanted  his  dinner  at  one  o’clock  precisely,  and 
she  never  would  dine  till  two ; she  wished  to  ride 
to  church,  though  it  was  only  five  minutes’  walk, 
and  he  never  would  permit  the  horses  to  be  har- 
nessed on  Sunday,  because  he  resolved  to  keep  the 
day  holy,  and  therefore  had  rather  quarrel  with 
his  wife  than  indulge  her  in  any  sinful  extrava- 
gance ; — and  in  short,  in  less  than  one  year  from 
the  day  they  were  married,  they  agreed  in  no  one 
thing,  save  regretting  the  transaction  of  their  wed- 
ding day.  The  friends  of  Mrs.  Crump  are  very 
sorry  that  she  should  live  so  unpleasantly;  but 
yet  as  she  resides  in  an  elegant  house,  and  dresses 
elegantly,  the  world  will  still  say  she  made  a — 
good  match . 


THE  COMET. 


By  O.  W.  Holmes. 

The  Comet ! he  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 

The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 
The  spectre  of  the  skies. 

Ah,  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 
And  satellites  turn  pale  ! 

Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head ! 
Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail ! 


On,  on,  by  whistling  spheres  of  light 
He  flashes  and  he  flames  ; 

He  turns  not  to  the  left  or  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names  ; 

One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel — 
Away,  away  they  fly, 

Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up, 
And  sold  for  “ Tyrian  dye.” 

And  what  will  happen  to  the  land, 
And  happen  to  the  sea, 

If  in  the  bearded  monster’s  path 
Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 

Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  should  boil, 
Full  red  the  forests  gleam — 


4 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Methought  I saw  and  heard  it  all 
In  a dyspeptic  dream. 

I saw  a poet  dip  a scroll 
Each  moment  in  a tub  ; 

I read  upon  the  warping  back 
“ The  dream  of  Beelzebub  : ” 

He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried  ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 
To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 

I saw  a tutor  take  his  tube, 

The  comet’s  course  to  spy  ; — 

I heard  a scream — the  gathered  rays 
Had  stewed  the  tutor’s  eye. 

I saw  a fort : — the  soldiers  ran 
About  in  goggles  green  ; 

Pop!  cracked  the  guns — whiz!  flew  the  ball 
Bang  ! went  the  magazine  ! 

The  Worcester  locomotives  did 
Their  trip  in  half  an  hour ; 

The  Lowell  cars  ran  forty  miles 
Before  they  checked  the  power. 

Boll-brimstone  soon  became  a drug, 

And  Loco-focos  fell  ; 

All  asked  for  ice — but  everywhere 
Saltpetre  was  to  sell. 

The  gas-light  companies  were  mobbed, 
The  bakers  all  were  shot, 


THE  COMET. 


39 


The  penny  press  began  to  talk 
Of  Lynching  Doctor  Nott ; 

And  all  about  the  warehouse  steps 
Were  angry  men  in  droves, 

Crashing  and  splintering  through  the  doors, 

To  smash  the  patent  stoves. 

I saw  a roasting  pullet  brood 
Upon  a baking  egg  ; 

I saw  a cripple  scorch  his  hands, 

Extinguishing  his  leg  ; 

I saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 
Towards  the  frozen  pole, 

And  every  mother’s  gosling  fell 
Crisped  to  a crackling  coal. 

I saw  the  ox  that  cropped  the  grass 
Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays  ; 

The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 
Was  all  a fiery  blaze. 

I saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  waves ; 

I listened,  and  I heard  the  dead 
Ail  simmering  in  their  graves  ! 

Strange  sights ! strange  sounds ! O ghastly  dream ! 
Its  memory  haunts  me  still ; — 

The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare 
That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ! 

Stranger  ! if  o’er  thy  slumbering  couch 
Such  fearful  visions  sweep, 

Spare,  spare,  oh  ! spare  thine  evening  meal, 
And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep. 


POETS— PAST  AND  PRESENT. 


By  Albert  Pike. 

A poet  used  to  be  a man  that  wore  a thread-bare  coat ; 

A lank  and  lean  ungartered  wight,  with  a red  silk 
round  his  throat ; 

With  a long  and  wo-denouncing  face  as  a man  would 
like  to  see — 

All  dirtiness  and  slovenliness,  and  a look  of  misery  ; 

With  his  nails  grown  out,  and  his  hair  grown  thick 
and  savage-like  and  long, 

And  a beard  that  would  make  a razor  shake,  unless  its 
nerves  were  strong. 

A poet  now  is  another  thing.  His  pockets  rattle  with 
cash  ; 

His  coat ’s  of  the  finest,  and  made  in  style,  and  he  cuts 
a monstrous  dash. 

He ’s  an  exquisite  of  the  highest  stamp — he  sports  a 
flaming  cravat ; 

You  may  look  for  him  with  a peaked  toe,  and  a little 
top  to  his  hat, 

And  a head  of  hair  of  the  primest  cut,  and  opera  glass 
at  the  eye  ; 

For  a poet  now  is  a man  to  make  the  hearts  of  the 
ladies  sigh. 


POETS— PAST  AND  PRESENT. 


41 


A poet  once  was  a lonely  man,  and  lived  not  far  from 
the  roof ; 

From  the  ladies  and  their  parties  he  was  fain  to  keep 
aloof ; 

He  thought  himself  superbly  off,  though  rather  cramped 
in  bed, 

If  his  garret  kept  the  winter  rain  from  dripping  on  his 
head  : 

And  lady  Fortune  dealt  her  gifts  with  a niggardliness 
of  measure, 

And  gave  to  poets,  times  ago,  but  very  little  treasure. 

A poet  7ioio  is  an  exquisite  : he ’s  the  deuse  among  the 
girls  ; 

A thing  of  foppery  and  ton , of  whiskers  and  of  curls ; 

He  travels  to  the  Springs  at  times,  and  cuts  a monstrous 
swell — 

And  there ’s  many  a man  with  his  coffers  full,  that  lives 
not  half  so  well. 

The  poets  have  oculists  turned,  they  say,  and  opened 
Fortune’s  eyes — 

And  you  ’ll  hardly  hear  for  an  age,  I think,  a starving 
rhymer’s  cries. 

A poet  once  wrote  “ slow  and  sure,”  that  his  writing 
might  last  for  ages  ; 

For  poets  then  were  knowing  men — your  dignified  old 
sages  : 

An  epic  took  them  twenty  years — a tragedy  some  five — 

And  very  little  care  had  they  to  make  the  main  point 
thrive ; 


4* 


42 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Their  search  was  for  a fleeting  thing,  (so  present  times 
call  Fame,) 

And  we  think  it  odd  the  world  has  heard,  and  granted 
all  their  claim. 

A poet  now  writes  on  the  trot,  or  on  the  canter  even — 

And ’t  will  be  a while  before  you  find  a name  to  sound 
to  heaven. 

An  epic  now  is  a two  months’  job — a tragedy  a week’s — 

And  all  that  a poet  gets  to-day — no  matter  what  he 
seeks — 

Is  the  fellow  Cash  ; for  as  to  that  which  people  once 
called  fame, 

The  world  will  never  grant  to  them  the  purpose  of  their 
claim. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY. 


By  Mrs.  Child. 

In  ancient  times  two  little  princesses  lived  in 
Scotland,  one  of  whom  was  extremely  beautiful, 
the  other  dwarfish,  dark  colored,  and  deformed. 
One  was  named  Rose  and  the  other  Marion. 
The  sisters  did  not  live  happily  together.  Marion 
hated  Rose  because  she  was  handsome,  and 
everybody  praised  her.  She  scowled,  and  her 
face  absolutely  grew  black,  when  anybody  asked 
her  how  her  pretty  little  sister  Rose  did ; and 
once  she  was  so  wicked  as  to  cut  off  all  her 
glossy,  golden  hair,  and  throw  it  into  the  fire. 
Poor  Rose  cried  bitterly  about  it ; but  she  did  not 
scold,  or  strike  her  sister;  for  she  was  an  amiable, 
gentle  little  being  as  ever  lived.  No  wonder  all 
the  family  and  all  the  neighborhood  disliked 
Marion — and  no  wonder  her  face  grew  uglier  and 
uglier  every  day.  The  Scotch  used  to  be  a very 
superstitious  people ; and  they  believed  the  infant 
Rose  had  been  blessed  by  the  fairies,  to  whom 
she  owed  her  extraordinary  beauty  and  exceed- 
ing goodness. 

Not  far  from  the  Castle  where  the  princesses 
resided,  was  a deep  grotto,  said  to  lead  to  the 


44 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Palace  of  Beauty ; where  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies 
held  her  court.  Some  said  Rose  had  fallen  asleep 
there  one  day,  when  she  had  grown  tired  of 
chasing  a butterfly,  and  that  the  Queen  had 
dipped  her  in  an  immortal  fountain,  from  which 
she  had  risen  with  the  beauty  of  an  angel.* 
Marion  often  asked  questions  about  this  story ; 
but  Rose  always  replied  that  she  had  been  forbid- 
den to  speak  of  it.  When  she  saw  any  uncom- 
monly brilliant  bird  or  butterfly,  she  would  some- 
times exclaim,  “Oh  how  much  that  looks  like 
fairy-land  ! 57  But  when  asked  what  she  knew 
about  fairy-land,  she  blushed,  and  would  not 
answer. 

Marion  thought  a great  deal  about  this.  “Why 
cannot  I go  to  the  Palace  of  Beauty? 77  thought 
she ; “ and  why  may  I not  bathe  in  the  Immortal 
Fountain  ! 77 

One  summer’s  noon,  when  all  was  still,  save 
the  faint  twittering  of  the  birds,  and  the  lazy 
hum  of  the  insects,  Marion  entered  the  deep 
grotto.  She  sat  down  on  a bank  of  moss ; the  air 
around  her  was  as  fragrant  as  if  it  came  from  a 
bed  of  violets ; and  with  a sound  of  far-off  music 
dying  on  her  ear,  she  fell  into  a gentle  slumber. 
When  she  awoke  it  was  evening ; and  she  found 
herself  in  a small  hall,  where  opal  pillows  sup- 
ported a rainbow-roof,  the  bright  reflection  of 


* There  was  a superstition  that  whoever  slept  on  fairy  ground  was 
carried  away  by  the  fairies. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY. 


45 


which  rested  on  crystal  walls,  and  a golden  floor 
inlaid  with  pearls.  All  around,  between  the  opal 
pillars,  stood  the  tiniest  vases  of  pure  alabaster, 
in  which  grew  a multitude  of  brilliant  and  fra- 
grant flowers;  some  of  them,  twining  around  the 
pillars,  were  lost  in  the  floating  rainbow  above. 
The  whole  of  this  scene  of  beauty  was  lighted 
up  by  millions  of  fire-flies,  glittering  about  like 
wandering  stars.  While  Marion  was  wondering 
at  all  this,  a little  figure  of  rare  loveliness  stood 
before  her ; her  robe  was  of  green  and  gold ; her 
flowing  gossamer  mantle  was  caught  up  on  one 
shoulder  with  a pearl,  and  in  her  hair  was  a soli- 
tary star,  composed  of  five  diamonds,  each  no 
bigger  than  a pin’s  point.  And  thus  she  sung: 

The  Fairy  Queen 
Hath  rarely  seen 
Creature  of  earthly  mould. 

Within  her  door, 

On  pearly  floor, 

Inlaid  with  shining  gold. 

Mortal,  all  thou  seest  is  fair, 

Quick  thy  purposes  declare  ! 

As  she  concluded,  the  song  was  taken  up,  and 
thrice  repeated  by  a multitude  of  soft  voices  in 
the  distance.  It  seemed  as  if  birds  and  insects 
joined  the  chorus — the  clear  voice  of  the  thrush 
was  distinctly  heard ; the  cricket  kept  time  with 
his  tiny  cymbal ; and  ever  and  anon  between  the 
pauses,  the  sound  of  a distant  cascade  was  heard, 
whose  waters  fell  in  music. 


46 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


All  these  delightful  sounds  died  away,  and  the 
Queen  of  the  Fairies  stood  patiently  awaiting 
Marion’s  answer.  Courtesying  low,  and  with  a 
trembling  voice,  the  little  maiden  said,  “ Will  it 
please  your  majesty  to  make  me  as  handsome  as 
my  sister  Rose  ? ” The  Queen  smiled:  “I  will 
grant  your  request,”  she  said,  “if  you  will  prom- 
ise to  fulfil  all  the  conditions  I impose.”  Marion 
eagerly  promised  that  she  would.  “ The  Immortal 
Fountain,”  replied  the  Queen,  “ is  on  the  top  of 
a high,  steep  hill;  at  four  different  places  fairies 
are  stationed  around  it,  who  guard  it  with  their 
wands  ; none  can  pass  them  except  those  who 
obey  my  orders.  Go  home  now : for  one  week 
speak  no  ungentle  word  to  your  sister — at  the  end 
of  that  time  come  again  to  the  grotto.” 

Marion  went  home  light  of  heart.  Rose  was 
in  the  garden  watering  the  flowers ; and  the 
first  thing  Marion  observed  was,  that  her  sister’s 
‘ sunny  hair  had  suddenly  grown  as  long  and 
beautiful  as  it  had  ever  been.  The  sight  made 
her  angry  ; and  she  was  just  about  to  snatch  the 
water-pot  from  her  hand  with  an  angry  expres- 
sion ; but  she  remembered  the  fairy,  and  passed 
into  the  Castle  in  silence.  The  end  of  the  week 
arrived,  and  Marion  had  faithfully  kept  her 
promise.  Again  she  went  to  the  grotto.  The 
Queen  was  feasting  when  she  entered  the  hall. 
The  bees  brought  honey-comb  and  deposited  it  on 
the  small  rose-colored  shells,  which  adorned  the 
crystal  table;  gaudy  butterflies  floated  about  the 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY. 


47 


head  of  the  Queen,  and  fanned  her  with  their 
wings;  the  cucullo  and  the  lantern-fly  stood  at 
her  side,  to  afford  her  light ; a large  diamond 
beetle  formed  her  splendid  footstool,  and  when 
she  had  supped,  a dew-drop,  on  the  petal  of  a 
violet,  was  brought  for  her  royal  fingers. 

When  Marion  entered,  the  diamond  sparkles 
on  the  wings  of  the  fairies  faded,  as  they  always 
did  in  the  presence  of  anything  not  perfectly 
good : and  in  a few  moments  all  the  Queen’s 
attendants  vanished  away,  singing  as  they  went, 

The  Fairy  Queen 
Hath  rarely  seen 
Creature  of  earthly  mould, 

Within  her  door, 

On  pearly  floor, 

Inlaid  with  shining  gold. 

“Mortal!  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  promise?” 
asked  the  Queen.  “ I have,”  replied  the  maiden. 
“ Then  follow  me.”  Marion  did  as  she  was 
directed — and  away  they  went,  over  beds  of 
violets  and  migionette.  The  birds  warbled  above 
their  heads,  butterflies  cooled  the  air,  and  the 
gurgling  of  many  fountains  came  with  a refresh- 
ing sound.  Presently  they  came  to  the  hill,  on 
the  top  of  which  was  the  Immortal  Fountain. 
Its  foot  was  surrounded  by  a band  of  fairies 
clothed  in  green  gossamer,  with  their  ivory  wands 
crossed,  to  bar  the  ascent.  The  Queen  waved 
her  wand  over  them,  and  immediately  they 
stretched  their  thin  wings  and  flew  away.  The 


48 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


hill  was  steep;  and  far,  far  np  they  went:  and 
the  air  became  more  and  more  fragrant ; and 
more  and  more  distinctly  they  heard  the  sound  of 
the  waters  falling  in  music.  At  length  they  were 
stopped  by  a band  of  fairies  clothed  in  blue,  with 
their  silver  wands  crossed.  “ Here,”  said  the 
Queen,  “ our  journey  must  end.  You  can  go  no 
further  until  you  shall  have  fulfilled  the  orders  I 
shall  give  you.  Go  home  now;  for  one  month, 
do  by  your  sister  in  all  respects,  as  you  would 
wish  to  have  her  do  by  you,  were  you  Rose  and 
she  Marion.”  Marion  promised,  and  departed. 
She  found  the  task  harder  than  the  first  had  been. 
She  could  help  speaking;  but  when  Rose  asked 
for  any  of  her  playthings,  she  found  it  difficult  to 
give  them  gently  and  affectionately,  instead  of 
pushing  them  along ; when  Rose  talked  to  her 
she  wanted  to  go  away  in  silence ; and  when  a 
pocket  mirror  was  found  in  her  sister’s  room, 
broken  into  a thousand  pieces,  she  felt  sorely 
tempted  to  conceal  that  she  did  the  mischief. 
But  she  was  so  anxious  to  be  made  beautiful, 
that  she  did  as  she  would  be  done  by. 

All  the  household  remarked  how  Marion  had 
changed.  “ I love  her  dearly,”  said  Rose,  “she 
is  good  and  amiable.”  “ So  do  I,”  and  “So  do 
I,”  said  a dozen  voices.  Marion  blushed,  and  her 
eye  sparkled  with  pleasure.  “How  pleasant  it 
is  to  be  loved,”  thought  she. 

At  the  end  of  the  month,  she  went  to  the  grotto. 
The  fairies  in  blue  lowered  their  silver  wands 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY. 


49 


and  flew  away.  They  travelled  on — the  path 
grew  steeper  and  steeper ; but  the  fragrance  of 
the  atmosphere  was  redoubled;  and  more  dis- 
tinctly came  the  sound  of  the  waters  falling  in 
music.  Their  course  was  staid  by  a troop  of 
fairies  in  rainbow  robes — their  silver  wands  tipped 
with  gold.  In  face  and  form,  they  were  far  more 
beautiful  than  anything  Marion  had  yet  seen. 
“ Here  we  must  pause,”  said  the  Queen  ; “ this 
boundary  you  cannot  yet  pass.”  “Why  not?” 
asked  the  impatient  Marion.  “ Because  those 
must  be  very  pure  who  pass  the  Rainbow  Fairies,” 
replied  the  Queen.  ‘‘Am  I not  very  pure?” 
said  Marion  ; “all  the  folks  at  the  Castle  tell  me 
how  good  I have  grown.” 

“Mortal  eyes  see  only  the  outside,”  answered 
the  Queen;  “but  those  who  pass  the  Rainbow 
Fairies  must  be  pure  in  thought  as  well  as  in- 
action. Return  home — for  three  months  never 
indulge  an  envious  or  wicked  thought.  You 
shall  then  have  a sight  of  the  Immortal  Foun- 
tain.” Marion  was  sad  at  heart;  for  she  knew 
how  many  envious  thoughts  and  wrong  wishes 
she  had  suffered  to  gain  power  over  her. 

At  the  end  of  the  three  months,  she  again 
visited  the  Palace  of  Beauty.  The  Queen  did 
not  smile  when  she  saw  her ; but  in  silence  led 
the  way  to  the  Immortal  Fountain.  The  Green 
Fairies  and  the  Blue  Fairies  flew  away  as  they 
approached;  but  the  Rainbow  Fairies  bowed  low 


5 


50 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


to  the  Queen,  and  kept  their  gold-tipped  wands 
firmly  crossed.  Marion  saw  that  the  silver  specks 
on  their  wings  grew  dim ; and  she  burst  into 
tears.  “I  knew,”  said  the  Queen,  “that  you 
could  not  pass  this  boundary.  Envy  has  been  in 
your  heart,  and  you  have  not  driven  it  away. 
Your  sister  has  been  ill ; and  in  your  heart  you 
wished  that  she  might  die,  or  rise  from  the  bed  of 
sickness  deprived  of  her  beauty.  But  be  not  dis- 
couraged; you  have  been  several  years  indulging 
wrong  feelings,  and  you  must  not  wonder  that  it 
takes  many  years  to  drive  them  away.” 

Marion  was  sad  as  she  wended  her  way  home- 
ward. When  Rose  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter,  she  told  her  that  she  wanted  to  be  very 
good,  but  she  could  not.  “ When  I want  to  be 
good,  I read  my  Bible  and  pray,”  said  Rose; 
“and  I find  God  helps  me  to  be  good.”  Then 
Marion  prayed  that  God  would  help  her  to  be 
pure  in  thought ; and  when  wicked  feelings  rose 
in  her  heart  she  read  her  Bible,  and  they  went 
away. 

When  she  again  visited  the  Palace  of  Beauty, 
the  Queen  smiled  and  touched  her  playfully  with 
her  wand,  then  led  the  way  to  the  Immortal 
Fountain.  The  silver  specks  on  the  wings  of 
the  Rainbow  Fairies  shone  bright  as  she  ap- 
proached them,  and  they  lowered  their  wands, 
and  sung  as  they  flew  away — 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY. 


51 


Mortal,  pass  on, 

Till  the  goal  is  won, — 

For  such  I ween 

Is  the  will  of  our  Queen — 

Pass  on  ! Pass  on ! 

And  now  every  footstep  was  on  flowers,  that 
yielded  beneath  their  feet,  as  if  their  pathway 
had  been  upon  a cloud.  The  delicious  fragrance 
could  almost  be  felt,  yet  it  did  not  oppress  the 
senses  with  its  heaviness;  and  loud,  clear  and 
liquid,  came  the  sound  of  the  waters  as  they  fell 
in  music.  And  now  the  cascade  is  seen  leaping 
and  sparkling  over  crystal  rocks  ; a rainbow  arch 
rests  above  it,  like  a perpetual  halo ; the  spray 
falls  in  pearls,  and  forms  fantastic  foliage  about 
the  margin  of  the  fountain.  It  has  touched  the 
webs  woven  among  the  grass,  and  they  have 
become  pearl-embroidered  cloaks  for  the  Fairy 
Queen.  Deep  and  silent,  below  the  foam,  is  the 
Immortal  Fountain ! Its  amber-colored  waves 
flow  over  a golden  bed ; and  as  the  fairies  bathe 
in  it,  the  diamonds  in  their  hair  glance  like  sun- 
beams on  the  waters. 

“Oh  let  me  bathe  in  the  fountain!”  cried 
Marion,  clasping  her  hands  in  delight.  “Not 
yet,”  said  the  Queen.  “ Behold  the  Purple 
Fairies  with  golden  wands,  that  guard  its  brink  ! ” 
Marion  looked,  and  saw  beings  far  lovelier  than 
any  her  eye  had  ever  rested  on.  “You  cannot 
pass  them  yet,”  said  the  Queen.  “ Go  home — for 
one  year  drive  away  all  evil  feelings,  not  for  the 


52 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


sake  of  bathing  in  the  fountain,  but  because  good- 
ness is  lovely  and  desirable  for  its  own  sake. 
Purify  the  inward  motive,  and  your  work  is 
done.” 

This  was  the  hardest  task  of  all ; for  she  had 
been  willing  to  be  good,  not  because  it  was  right 
to  be  good,  but  because  she  had  wished  to  be 
beautiful.  Three  times  she  sought  the  grotto, 
and  three  times  she  left  it  in  tears;  for  the  golden 
specks  grew  dim  at  her  approach,  and  the  golden 
wands  were  still  crossed,  to  shut  her  from  the 
Immortal  Fountain.  The  fourth  time  she  pre- 
vailed. The  Purple  Fairies  lowered  their  wands, 
singing, 

Thou  hast  scaled  the  mountain, 

Go  bathe  in  the  fountain, 

Rise  fair  to  the  sight 
As  an  angel  of  light, — 

Go  bathe  in  the  fountain  ! 

Marion  was  about  to  plunge  in ; but  the  Queen 
touched  her,  saying,  “ Look  into  the  mirror  of 
the  waters.  Art  thou  not  already  as  beautiful  as 
heart  can  wish  ? ” 

Marion  looked  at  herself,  and  she  saw  that  her 
eye  sparkled  with  new  lustre,  that  a bright  color 
shone  through  her  cheeks,  and  dimples  played 
sweetly  about  her  mouth.  “I  have  not  touched 
the  Immortal  Fountain,”  said  she,  turning  in 
surprise  to  the  Queen.  u True,”  replied  the 
Queen;  “ but  its  waters  have  been  within  your 
soul.  Know  that  a pure  heart  and  clean  con- 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY.  53 

science  are  the  only  Immortal  Fountain  of 
Beauty.” 

When  Marion  returned,  Rose  clasped  her  to  her 
bosom,  and  kissed  her  fervently.  “ I know  all,” 
said  she,  “ though  I have  not  asked  you  a ques- 
tion. I have  been  in  fairy-land,  disguised  as  a 
bird,  and  I have  watched  all  your  steps.  When 
you  first  went  to  the  grotto,  I begged  the  Queen 
to  grant  your  wish.” 

Ever  after  that,  the  sisters  lived  lovingly  to- 
gether. It  was  the  remark  of  every  one,  “ How 
handsome  Marion  has  grown.  The  ugly  scowl 
has  departed  from  her  face ; and  the  light  of  her 
eye  is  so  mild  and  pleasant,  and  her  mouth  looks 
so  smiling  and  good-natured,  that  to  my  taste,  I 
declare,  she  is  as  handsome  as  Rose.” 


5* 


DAYBREAK. 


By  PvIchard  H.  Dana. 

The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a large  upper  chamber,  whose  window 
opened  towards  the  sun-rising  5 the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace  ; 
where  he  slept  till  break  of  day,  and  then  he  awoke  and  sang. 

Pilgrim1  s Progress. 

Now,  brighter  than  the  host,  that,  all  night  long, 

In  fiery  armor,  up  the  heavens  high 

Stood  watch,  thoucom’st  to  wait  the  morning’s  song. 

Thou  comest  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh. 

Star  of  the  dawning,  cheerful  is  thine  eye ; 

And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 

Thou  seem’st  to  look  on  me  as  asking  why 
My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim ; 

Thou  bidst  me  turn  to  God,  and  seek  my  rest  in  Him. 

“ Canst  thou  grow  sad,”  thou  sayest,  “ as  earth 
grows  bright  ? 

And  sigh,  when  little  birds  begin  discourse 
In  quick,  low  voices,  ere  the  streaming  light 
Pours  on  their  nests,  from  out  the  day’s  fresh  source? 
With  creatures  innocent  thou  must,  perforce, 

A sharer  be,  if  that  thine  heart  be  pure. 

And  holy  hour  like  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 

Of  ills  and  pains  of  life  must  be  the  cure, 

And  breathe  in  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to  endure.” 


DAYBREAK. 


55 


I feel  its  calm.  But  there ’s  a sombrous  hue 
Along  that  eastern  cloud,  of  deep,  dull  red ; 

Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew ; 

And  all  the  woods  and  hill-tops  stand  outspread 
With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort  shed. 
Still — save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song — 

The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead — 
The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 

And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate  and  wrong. 

But  wrong,  and  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth 
Will  quicken  soon;  and  hard,  hot  toil  and  strife, 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  this  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scattered  beauties  Nature ’s  rife ; 

And  airs,  and  woods,  and  streams,  breathe  harmonies : 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife ; 

Nor  binds  his  heart  with  soft  and  kindly  ties  : 

He,  feverish,  blinded,  lives,  and,  feverish,  sated,  dies. 

And ’t  is  because  man  useth  so  amiss 
Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad ; 

Else  why  should  she,  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this, 

Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad, 

From  her  fair  face  ? — It  is  that  man  is  mad ! 

Then  chide  me  not,  clear  Star,  that  I repine, 

When  Nature  grieves ; nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 
Thou  look’st  towards  earth ; but  yet  the  heavens  are 
thine, 

While  I to  earth  am  bound  : — When  will  the  heavens 
be  mine  ? 


56 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  learn, 

And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 
Of  simpler  things  ; could  Nature’s  features  stern 
Teach  him  be  thoughtful ; then,  with  soul  intense, 

I should  not  yearn  for  God  to  take  me  hence, 

But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bowed, 
Remembering,  humbly,  why  it  is,  and  whence  : 

But  when  I see  cold  man  of  reason  proud, 

My  solitude  is  sad — I ’m  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

But  not  for  this  alone,  the  silent  tear 

Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn, 

Nor  for  this  solemn  hour  : — fresh  life  is  near  ; 

But  all  my  joys  ! — they  died  when  newly  born. 
Thousands  will  wake  to  joy — while  I,  forlorn, 

And  like  the  stricken  deer,  with  sickly  eye, 

Shall  see  them  pass.  Breathe  calm — my  spirit ’s 
torn ; 

Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high  ! — 

Ye  hopes  of  things  unseen,  the  far-off  world  bring  nigh. 

And  when  I grieve,  oh ! rather  let  it  be 
That  I — whom  Nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  rolling  sea — 

Who,  when  the  winds  are  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  wood  and  waters,  feel  the  quickening  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit — who,  as  mine  own  child, 

Do  love  the  flower,  and  in  the  ragged  bur 
A beauty  see — that  I this  mother  mild 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  care,  and  passions  fierce  and 
wild  ! 


DAYBREAK. 


57 


How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft 
Shot  ’thwart  the  earth  ! — in  crown  of  living  fire 
Up  comes  the  day  ! — as  if  they  conscious  quaffed, 
The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city,  spire 
Laugh  in  the  wakening  light. — Go,  vain  Desire  ! 
The  dusky  lights  have  gone ; go  thou  thy  way ! 

And  pining  Discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 

Be  called  my  chamber,  Peace,  when  ends  the  day ; 
And  let  me,  with  the  dawn,  like  Pilgrim,  sing  and  pray  ! 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 


By  N.  P.  Willis. 

On  the  cross  beam  under  the  Old  South  bell, 

The  nest  of  a pigeon  is  builded  well. 

In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there — . 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air  ; 

I ’ve  passed  him  oft,  and  I know  his  peck, 

By  the  play  of  gold  in  his  mottled  neck ; 

And  I love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 

With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 

And  I often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 

Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 

’T  is  a bird  I love,  with  his  brooding  note, 

And  the  pulsing  throb  in  his  trembling  throat; 
There’s  a human  look  in  his  swelling  breast, 

And  the  gentle  curve  of  his  lowly  crest ; 

And  I often  stop  with  the  fear  I feel — 

He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 

Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon — - 
VvTien  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon — 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 


When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  lmht — 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  “ nine  at  night, 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 

Or  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Swreet  bird  ! I would  that  I could  be 
A hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  writh  men ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  me,  wThen  day  is  o’er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I wrould  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 
I could  my  wreary  heart  upfold  ; 

I would  I could  look  down  unmoved, 

(Unloving  as  I am  unloved,) 

And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 
Smoothe  down  my  cares,  and  calmly  breathe  ; 
And  never  sad  with  others’  sadness, 

And  never  glad  with  others’  gladness, 

Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 

And,  lapt  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 


OUR  VILLAGE  POET. 


By  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

Our  village  is  the  very  place  where  the  muse  of 
lyric  poetry  should  take  up  her  abode ; — it  is  so 
quiet  and  green.  The  natives  believe  there  is  not 
so  lovely  a spot  under  the  blue  heavens;  but 
strangers  say,  there  is  nothing  particularly  beauti- 
ful in  the  town,  excepting,  always,  the  grace- 
ful rounding  of  the  hills,  and  the  easy  meander- 
ing of  its  little  river.  The  poetry  inspired  by 
our  verdant  scenery,  is  full  of  a serene  and  affec- 
tionate spirit.  We  have  no  rushing  cataracts, 
sky- wrapped  mountains,  gloomy  caverns,  and 
sea-beaten  cliffs,  to  awaken  bold  and  startling 
thoughts.  Byron’s  muse  would  have  died  of  in- 
anition, if  she  had  been  exiled  to  our  village. 

Most  of  our  school-girls  were  scribblers.  Our 
very  best  poet  was  Donald  McAllister,  one  of  our 
school-boys,  who  perished  among  the  u coral  rocks 
in  Madagascar  seas.”  There  was  one  remarka- 
bly dull  boy  in  our  parish.  His  parents  died 
when  he  was  about  fourteen  years  old,  leaving 
him  nothing  but  a small,  poorly-furnished  house 
and  a few  ragged  books.  The  boy  lived  there  all 


OUR  VILLAGE  POET. 


61 


alone,  gathering  for  fuel  the  decayed  leaves  and 
branches  which  were  profusely  scattered  in  the 
forest  where  his  hut  was  situated,  going  every  day 
to  labor  for  his  bread  at  Dr.  Johnson’s  farm,  and 
at  his  leisure  hours  poring  over  those  ancient 
books. 

Sometimes  a wealthy,  generous-minded  lady 
would  bestow  on  him  a worn-out  coat,  after  heed- 
fully  cutting  off  the  buttons  and  depositing  them 
in  her  own  work-box,  or  a hat  and  shoes,  from 
which  parts  of  the  rim  and  soles  had  been  ab- 
stracted. Sometimes  he  carried  about  coarse  wil- 
low baskets,  which  he  had  made  in  the  long  win- 
ter evenings  by  the  light  of  a pitch-pine  knot.  He 
was  considered  dull,  because  he  never  played  at 
ball,  or  hide-and-seek,  with  other  boys.  He  could 
not  understand  a jest,  even  if  he  was  himself  the 
object  of  it,  and  if  it  was  more  bluntly  repeated, 
he  did  not  return  it,  but  the  tear  would  glisten  in 
his  eyes,  which  some  said  was  u mighty  babyish 
for  a great  boy  like  him.”  If  a school-mate 
struck  him,  instead  of  resenting  the  affront,  he 
would  treat  the  offender  with  kindness.  A few 
supposed  he  was  a coward  ; but  a greater  number 
believed  it  was  because  the  bible,  his  chosen  book, 
commanded  us  “ not  to  avenge  ourselves,  but 
to  return  good  for  evil.”  He  could  not  have  been 
a coward,  for  he  used  to  walk  through  the  bury- 
ing-ground  to  visit  the  graves  of  his  parents  every 
moonlight  evening.  If  he  was  ever  questioned 
upon  any  subject,  he  only  replied,  “No,”  “Yes,” 
6 


62 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


or,  “ I can’t  tell ; ” this  was  the  most  he  was  ever 
heard  to  say.  But,  although  he  was  called  stupid, 
he  was  very  amiable,  respectful  to  his  superiors, 
and  obliging  to  all.  No  one  could  accuse  him  of 
a wicked  action,  or  of  neglecting  to  attend  church. 
So  he  lived  until  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  when 
an  event  occurred  which  tended  to  bring  him 
greatly  into  notice. 

There  was  a pretty  girl,  named  Sarah  Cross, 
who  lived  about  a mile  from  his  cottage,  to  whom 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  carry  the  first-blown 
roses,  and  the  finest  peaches  from  his  little  gar- 
den. That  was  all.  He  never  saw  her  more 
than  twice  a year,  excepting  at  church  and  sing- 
ing-meetings in  the  school-house,  and  never  said 
ten  words  to  her  in  his  life,  perhaps.  One  day 
she  was  merrily  skipping  across  the  frozen  mill- 
pond, when  the  ice  suddenly  gave  way,  and  she 
sunk  under  the  water.  The  miller  saw  her  fall 
in,  and  came  to  her  assistance,  but  she  was  en- 
tirely lifeless  before  he  succeeded  in  getting  her 
out.  Many  sad  lamentations  were  sent  up  by  old 
and  young,  though  they  were  mingled  with  heart- 
felt gratitude — for  many  of  the  school-children  had 
passed  over  the  pond  that  very  morning  in  perfect 
safety.  Harry  Brown  attended  her  funeral,  as  all 
the  parish  did ; and  when  he  came  to  look  at  the 
corpse,  he  burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  aloud. 
From  this  time  there  was  a visible  change  in  his 
appearance.  He  was  not  so  steady  at  his  work 
as  usual.  He  visited  the  burying-ground,  mom- 


OUR  VILLAGE  POET. 


G3 


ing  and  night,  and  planted  a willow  over  Sarah’s 
grave,  where  he  used  to  sit  reading  his  old  hooks. 
He  was  always  moving  his  lips  as  if  whispering, 
besides  which  he  purchased,  at  the  store,  quill 
after  quill,  and  sheet  after  sheet  of  paper,  until  all 
were  in  the  fidgets  to  know  what  he  could  find 
to  do  with  them.  At  last  it  came  out.  He  was 
turning  poet. 

The  first  poem  he  wrote  was  a lament  for  Sarah 
Cross — a most  heart-melting  thing.  The  next  was 
an  elegy  for  Tim  Jeremy’s  little  girl.  It  also  con- 
tained a notice  of  the  kindness  of  Eleanor  Wake- 
field, now  Mrs.  George  Graves,  who  used  to  watch 
by  its  sick  cradle.  It  was  very  much  admired  by 
Eleanor,  to  whom  it  was  first  shown.  She  handed 
it  about  to  everybody,  and  everybody  praised  it, 
and  begged  a copy.  The  third  was  on  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Deacon  Haskell,  who  was  beloved  by 
every  one  for  her  benevolence  and  piety.  In  fact, 
as  Ensign  Jewett  observed,  “ now  he  was  once  set 
a-going,  there  was  no  stopping  him.”  He  expa- 
tiated in  rhyme  upon  the  stars,  the  pretty  girls, 
the  trees  and  birds,  night  and'  morning,  the  meet- 
ing-house, and  all  nature  besides — generously  en- 
riching his  poems  with  apposite  quotations  from 
Milton,  Shakspeare,  Homer  and  Virgil.  A spirit 
of  humble  devotion  to  God,  and  sincere  love  to 
man,  were  diffused  through  all  his  writings.  The 
lines  were  usually  a little  irregular,  and  the  style 
sometimes  rough.  He  had  never  conversed,  and 
was  only  beginning  to  write,  consequently  he  found 


64 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


himself  greatly  in  want  of  words.  He  applied  to 
his  dictionary,  which,  indeed,  furnished  him 
an  abundance,  but  unfortunately  he  often  selected 
those  which  were  obsolete  or  unusual.  Our  min- 
ister, however,  took  occasion  to  hand  him  some 
well-written  modern  works,  the  style  of  which  he 
seemed  greatly  to  admire,  and  endeavored  to  imi- 
tate. What  a change  had  taken  place  in  this 
young  man’s  prospects  within  a year  ! From  a 
lonely,  retiring  boy,  he  had  suddenly  shot  up  into 
a man — a poet, — all  in  a moment.  He  bethought 
himself  that  his  costume  was  not  quite  befitting 
his  new  character,  and  forthwith  he  diligently 
went  to  work  for  Deacon  Haskell,  until  his  means 
were  sufficient  to  procure  himself  a complete  suit 
of  iron-gray,  with  a scarlet-and-green  plaid  cloak. 
When  he  “ came  out,”  he  was  quite  a noticeable 
figure  in  our  singing-seats.  He  was  elegantly  tall 
and  slender.  His  head  was  covered  with  heavy, 
bright-yellow,  natural  curls.  His  light  gray  eyes 
were  rather  dull,  unless  he  was  in  a reverie,  or 
animated  by  music,  when  the  pupil  of  the  eye 
would  so  dilate,  that  you  would  fancy  the  whole 
organ  was  black,  and  so  sparkling  one  could 
hardly  look  at  him.  ’T  was  a pity  he  could  not 
converse.  The  language  of  the  pen,  and  the  un- 
speakable eloquence  of  the  eye,  were  all  he  could 
boast. 

When  Squire  Newell’s  eldest  daughter,  Fanny, 
died,  Harry  Brown  composed  so  pathetic  an  elegy 
upon  her  death,  that  her  father  gave  him  a flute, 


OUR  VILLAGE  POET. 


65 


and  her  brother  John  offered  to  teach  him  to  play 
it.  It  thrills  my  heart,  at  this  distance  of  time, 
to  remember  how  meltingly  in  the  summer  even- 
ing came  the  notes  of  Bonny  Doon  and  Auld  Robin 
Gray  across  the  little  river,  from  the  thick  forest 
in  which  the  poet’s  cot  was  hidden. — Oh  ! it  was 
the  soul  of  melody — and  the  deep  quiet  of  our 
green  valley  was  in  perfect  unison  with  its  sweet 
pensiveness. 

One  Monday  morning,  Harry,  as  usual,  hung 
out  his  iron- grays,  and  his  green-and-scarlet 
cloak  to  air,  while  he  was  reading  his  chapter 
in  the  bible.  Very  few  mischievous  and  light- 
fingered  people  are  there  in  our  village,  but  there 
is  no  place  entirely  without  them ; and  when 
the  poet  had  replaced  his  bible  on  the  shelf,  cov- 
ered his  fire,  swept  his  hearth,  and  gone  out  to 
look  to  his  Sunday  garment,  he  discovered  that 
the  green-and-scarlet  cloak  had  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared. He  went  back  in  great  consternation 
to  his  arm-chair,  and  resting  his  head  on  his 
hands,  pondered  gloomily  the  abduction  of  his  rai- 
ment. “ It  cannot  have  gone  away  without  help , 
and  therefore  somebody  must  have  helped  it 
away,57  reasoned  he;  but  who?  There  was  no 
trace  of  the  thief,  and  the  poet  would  not  allow 
himself  to  suspect  any  one  of  the  larceny.  “ One 
thing  I can  do,”  thought  he,  and  after  pacing  the 
room  awhile,  he  sat  down  to  write  an  advertise- 
ment directed  u to  the  person  who  took  away  a 
6* 


66 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


green-and-red  cloak  belonging  to  Harry  Brown.” 
In  this  document  he  meekly  set  forth  that  “the 
person  had  injured  him  without  a cause,  but  he 
freely  forgave  him,  and  would  use  no  means  to 
bring  him  to  justice.  He,  however,  besought  him 
to  remember  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a great 
sin — a sin  that  would  shut  him  out  of  heaven  if 
he  did  not  repent  of  it; — that  he  might  suddenly 
die,  and  find  no  space  for  repentance.  At  any 
rate,  if  he  should  persist  in  the  evil  course  he  had 
begun,  it  must  inevitably  bring  him  to  the  gallows. 
He  was  willing  to  allow  him  the  use  of  the  cloak 
until  Saturday  night,  when  he  begged  him  to  re- 
turn it,  as  he  could  not  otherwise  attend  church  ! ” 
It  was  winter,  and  we  had  then  no  stoves  in  our 
church. 

One  copy  of  this  advertisement  he  nailed  up  on 
the  door  of  the  church,  another  on  the  store,  and 
another  on  the  central  school-house. 

All  that  week,  groups  of  men,  or  girls,  or  school- 
children,  might  be  seen  clustered  around  the  no- 
tices; and  one  young  man,  who  had  been  reading 
them,  was  seen  to  retire  in  evident  and  irrepressi- 
ble agitation.  On  Friday  evening,  the  poet  heard 
an  inexplicable  rustling  among  the  bushes  at  his 
door,  and  on  opening  it,  he  discovered  his  cloak 
upon  the  door-stone.  He  examined  the  pocket  to 
see  if  the  hymn-book  was  gone.  It  was  there,  in 
company  with  some  silver  pieces,  which  the  peni- 
tent offender  had  offered  as  an  atonement  for  his 


OUR  VILLAGE  POET. 


67 


theft.  Harry  deposited  them  in  the  charity-box, 
as  a thank-offering  for  the  restoration  of  his 
cloak. 

This  short-lived  affliction  served,  on  the  whole, 
to  do  him  good.  It  reminded  him  of  the  necessity 
of  providing  for  a time  of  want  or  of  losses,  and 
he  became  more  industrious,  and  began  to  lay  up 
a portion  of  his  small  earnings. 

How  our  poet,  in  spite  of  his  rhyming  propensi- 
ties, could  fall  in  love  with,  and  marry  plump  Patty 
Gale,  and  how  he  managed  to  court  her,  with  the 
aid  of  monosyllables  only,  was  a marvel,  passing 
the  ability  of  our  wisest  heads  to  explain. 

But  I had  the  story  {in  confidence)  from  Nancy, 
Patty’s  sister,  and  there  was  nothing  so  very  re- 
markable in  it,  after  all.  He  merely  addressed  a 
sonnet  to  her,  as  he  did  to  several  of  us  village 
girls  ; and  we  indeed  thought  nothing  of  it,  only 
that  he  remembered  us  kindly;  but  she — (and she 
was  a saucy  girl) — taking  advantage  of  the  affec- 
tionate style  of  the  poem,  and  her  own  good  graces 
— (for  she  was,  it  must  be  conceded,  extremely 
“ pretty-looking,”  only  she  was  so  plump) — re- 
turned him  an  equally  kind  answer.  There  were 
some  sentiments  like  these  at  the  close  of  the 
sonnet : 


Thus,  day  and  night,  I sigh  and  languish, 
Oh  ! will  you  not  regard  my  anguish  ? 
For  you  can  save  me  if  you  will, 

And  make  me  very  happy  still. 

My  joy  would  never,  never  fail, 

If  I could  marry  Patty  Gale. 


68 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Patty  was  quite  unable  to  resist  this  affecting 
appeal.  The  tears  rolled  down  her  rosy  cheeks 
while  she  perused  it.  She  immediately  returned 
him  an  answer,  telling  him  “ she  would  be  his 
wife,  and  he  might  call  and  see  her  the  next  eve- 
ning. She  was  sorry  he  had  suffered  so  much  on 
her  account ; but  she  could  not  blame  herself,  as 
she  did  not  know  of  it  before.5 5 

It  is  a matter  of  some  doubt  whether  Harry  ex- 
pected or  even  desired  any  reply ; least  of  all,  such 
a reply  as  this ; but  he  visited  her,  and  although 
the  conversation  was  carried  on  pretty  much  with- 
out his  aid,  it  was  fully  settled,  with  the  consent 
of  her  parents,  that  they  should  marry  next 
autumn.  But  in  the  autumn,  her  father  was 
very  ill,  and  therefore  the  wedding  was  deferred 
to  winter,  when  the  sleigh-bells  rang  a loud  and 
merry  peal,  as  the  long  procession  moved  rapidly 
by  in  its  way  to  Harry  Brown’s  cottage  in  the 
wood.  You  would  hardly  have  recognized  that 
old  cottage — it  was  so  nicely  painted  and  white- 
washed ; for  though  Henry  was  poor,  Capt.  Gale 
was  rich,  and  generous  too,  and  it  gave  him  sin- 
cere pleasure  to  contribute  to  his  children’s  com- 
fort. 

If  any  stranger  should  have  the  curiosity  to 
visit  the  poet’s  birth-place,  let  him  ride  up  the 
Shanobie  road — (it  is  a smooth,  shady  road,  and 
not  much  out  of  the  way) — until  he  comes  to  the 
walnut  wood,  and,  closely  embowered  by  those 
heavy  old  trees,  he  may  discover  a little  one-sided 


OUR  VILLAGE  POET. 


69 


yellow  cottage,  with  plenty  of  red  and  white  rose- 
bushes, and  tall  sun-flowers  in  front,  and  glitter- 
ing rows  of  tin  milk-pans  under  the  windows.  It 
would  afford  him  but  little  pleasure  to  look  into 
the  dwelling.  He  would  only  find  a merry  yel- 
low-haired man,  and  a plump  black-eyed  woman, 
and  some  half  a dozen  rosy  romps  of  children. 
Harry  has  left  off  sonnet-writing. 


THE  PASSION  FOR  LIFE. 


By  I.  McLellan,  Jr. 


11  Is  there  anything1  on  earth  I can  do  for  you  ? ” said  Taylor  to  Dr. 
Walcott,  as  he  lay  on  his  death-bed.  The  passion  for  life  dictated  the 
answer — u Give  me  back  my  youth  ! ;7  These  were  his  last  words. 


Oh  ! give  me  back  my  youth  ! 

Oh  ! give  me  back  life’s  golden  prime, 
Childhood,  and  boyhood’s  blissful  time, 
Gay  sports  and  frolics  rude  ; 

The  tumble  on  the  new-mown  hay, 

The  ramble  in  the  wood ; 

The  long  bright  summer  holiday, 

The  Christmas  Eve’s  domestic  play ; 

The  saunter  in  the  fields, 

When  autumn  fruits  were  red  and  ripe, 
And  grapes  were  hanging  thick  and  sweet 
From  every  sunny  wall, 

And  in  the  orchard,  round  our  feet, 

The  yellow  pears  were  thickly  spread, 

And  pippins,  streaked  with  gold,  would  fall 
With  every  breeze  that  stirred  o’er  head, 
And  school-boy  baskets  soon  were  laden 
With  wild  nuts  from  the  branches  shaken. 


THE  PASSION  FOR  LIFE. 


71 


Oh  ! give  me  back  my  youth  ! 

Nor  wealth  nor  wisdom  do  I crave, 

Nor  honor,  praise,  or  fame  ; 

For  soon  the  deep  and  gaping  grave 
Must  close  above  this  frame  : 

But  rather  give  me  back  my  youth — 
Its  joy,  its  innocence,  its  truth. 

Oh  ! give  me  back  my  youth  ! 

Fill  these  dull  eyes  again  with  light ; 
Let  these  white  hairs  be  shorn  away, 
And  let  the  golden  locks  of  yore 
Above  these  temples  play  ; 

And  let  this  old  and  furrowed  brow, 
Ploughed  by  full  many  a year, 

Take  the  bright  look  of  long  ago, 

So  white,  so  pure  and  clear ; 

And  let  this  sunken  cheek  resume 
Its  rosy  health,  its  glowing  bloom. 

Home  of  my  childhood  ! happy  spot ! 

Beyond  the  dreary  waste  of  years, 

In  memory’s  faithful  glass,  how  bright, 
How  fair,  your  humble  roof  appears  ! 
I see,  I see,  the  rustic  porch, 

And,  close  beside  the  door, 

The  old  Elm,  waving  still  as  green 
As  in  the  days  of  yore. 

I see  the  wreathing  smoke  ascend, 

In  azure  columns,  up  the  sky ; 

I see  the  twittering  swallows  still 
Around  in  giddy  circles  fly. 


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THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Bat  no  ! that  joyful  time  hath  gone — 

Hath  gone  forever  by  ; 

And  life,  and  earth,  are  fading  fast 
Upon  this  glaring  eye  ; 

And  soon  the  imprisoned  soul  shall  mount, 
In  freedom,  to  its  last  account ! 


NEW  ENGLAND. 


By  J.  G.  Whittier. 

Land  of  the  forest  and  the  rock — 

Of  dark  blue  lake  and  mighty  fiver — 

Of  mountains  reared  aloft  to  mock 
The  storm’s  career,  the  lightning’s  shock — 
My  own  green  land  forever  ! 

Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave — 

The  freeman’s  home — the  martyr’s  grave — 
The  nursery  of  giant  men, 

Whose  deeds  have  linked  with  every  glen, 
And  every  hill,  and  every  stream, 

The  romance  of  some  warrior-dream ! 

Oh  ! never  may  a son  of  thine, 

Where’er  his  wandering  steps  incline, 

Forget  the  sky  which  bent  above 
His  childhood  like  a dream  of  love — 

The  stream  beneath  the  green  hill  flowing — 
The  broad-armed  trees  above  it  growing — 
The  clear  breeze  through  the  foliage  blowing ; 
Or  hear,  unmoved,  the  taunt  of  scorn 
Breathed  o’er  the  brave  New  England  born  ; 
Or  mark  the  stranger’s  jaguar  hand 
Disturb  the  ashes  of  thy  dead — 

The  buried  glory  of  a land 

Whose  soil  with  noble  blood  is  red, 

And  sanctified  in  every  part, — 


7 


74 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Nor  feel  resentment,  like  a brand, 
Unsheathing  from  his  fiery  heart ! 

Oh  ! greener  hills  may  catch  the  sun 

Beneath  the  glorious  heaven  of  France; 

And  streams,  rejoicing  as  they  run 

Like  life  beneath  the  day-beam’s  glance, 

May  wander  where  the  orange  bough 
With  golden  fruit  is  bending  low  ; 

And  there  may  bend  a brighter  sky 
O’er  green  and  classic  Italy — 

And  pillared  fane  and  ancient  grave 
Bear  record  of  another  time, 

And  over  shaft  and  architrave 
The  green  luxuriant  ivy  climb  ; 

And  far  towards  the  rising  sun 

The  palm  may  shake  its  leaves  on  high, 
Where  flowers  are  opening,  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  upon  the  twilight  sky, 

And  breezes  soft  as  sighs  of  love 
Above  the  broad  banana  stray, 

And  through  the  Brahmin’s  sacred  grove 
A thousand  bright-hued  pinions  play ! 

Yet  unto  thee,  New  England,  still 

Thy  wandering  sons  shall  stretch  their  arms, 
And  thy  rude  chart  of  rock  and  hill 
Seem  dearer  than  the  land  of  palms ; 

Thy  massy  oak  and  mountain  pine 

More  welcome  than  the  banyan’s  shade ; 

And  every  free,  blue  stream  of  thine 
Seem  richer  than  the  golden  bed 
Of  oriental  waves,  which  glow 
And  sparkle  with  the  wealth  below  ! 


SPIRITUAL  FREEDOM. 


By  Wm.  E.  Channing. 


I may  be  asked  what  I mean  by  Inward  Spiritual 
Freedom  ? The  common  and  true  answer  is,  that 
it  is  freedom  from  sin,  I apprehend,  however, 
that  to  many,  if  not  to  most,  these  words  are  too 
vague  to  convey  a full  and  deep  sense  of  the 
greatness  of  the  blessing.  Let  me  then  offer  a 
brief  explanation ; and  the  most  important  remark 
in  illustrating  this  freedom,  is,  that  it  is  not  a neg- 
ative state,  not  the  mere  absence  of  sin ; for  such 
a freedom  may  be  ascribed  to  inferior  animals,  or 
to  children  before  becoming  moral  agents.  Spir- 
itual freedom  is  the  attribute  of  a mind,  in  which 
reason  and  conscience  have  begun  to  act,  and 
which  is  free  through  its  own  energy,  through 
fidelity  to  the  truth,  through  resistance  of  tempta- 
tion. I cannot  therefore  better  give  my  views  of 
spiritual  freedom,  than  by  saying,  that  it  is  moral 
energy,  or  force  of  holy  purpose,  put  forth  against 
the  senses,  against  the  passions,  against  the  world, 
and  thus  liberating  the  intellect,  conscience  and 
will,  so  that  they  may  act  with  strength  and  un- 
fold themselves  forever.  The  essence  of  spiritual 


76 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


freedom  is  power.  A man  liberated  from  sensual 
lusts  by  a palsy,  would  not  therefore  be  inwardly 
free.  He  only  is  free,  who,  through  self-conflict 
and  moral  resolution,  sustained  by  trust  in  God, 
subdues  the  passions  which  have  debased  him, 
and,  escaping  the  thraldom  of  low  objects,  binds 
himself  to  pure  and  lofty  ones.  That  mind  alone 
is  free,  which,  looking  to  God  as  the  inspirer  and 
rewarder  of  virtue,  adopts  his  law,  written  on  the 
heart  and  in  his  word,  as  its  supreme  rule,  and 
which,  in  obedience  to  this,  governs  itself,  reveres 
itself,  exerts  faithfully  its  best  powers,  and  unfolds 
itself  by  well  doing,  in  whatever  sphere  God’s 
providence  assigns. 

It  has  pleased  the  All-wise  Disposer  to  encom- 
pass us  from  our  birth  with  difficulty  and  allure- 
ment, to  place  us  in  a world  where  wrong  doing 
is  often  gainful,  and  duty  rough  and  perilous, 
where  many  voices  oppose  the  dictates  of  the  in- 
ward monitor,  where  the  body  presses  as  a weight 
on  the  mind,  and  matter,  by  its  perpetual  agency 
on  the  senses,  becomes  a barrier  between  us  and 
the  spiritual  world.  We  are  in  the  midst  of  in- 
fluences, which  menace  the  intellect  and  heart, 
and  to  be  free  is  to  withstand  and  conquer  these. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  masters  the  senses, 
which  protects  itself  against  animal  appetites, 
which  contemns  pleasure  and  pain  in  comparison 
with  its  own  energy,  which  penetrates  beneath 
the  body  and  recognizes  its  own  reality  and  great- 
ness, which  passes  life,  not  in  asking  what  it  shall 


SPIRITUAL  FREEDOM.  JJ 

eat  or  drink,  but  in  hungering,  thirsting  and  seek- 
ing after  righteousness. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  escapes  the  bond- 
age of  matter,  which,  instead  of  stopping  at  the 
material  universe  and  making  it  a prison  wall, 
passes  beyond  it  to  its  Author,  and  finds,  in  the 
radiant  signatures  which  it  everywhere  bears  of 
the  Infinite  Spirit,  helps  to  its  own  spiritual  en- 
largement. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  jealously  guards  its 
intellectual  rights  and  powers,  which  calls  no 
man  master,  which  does  not  content  itself  with  a 
passive  or  hereditary  faith,  which  opens  itself  to 
light  whencesoever  it  may  come,  which  receives 
new  truth  as  an  angel  from  heaven,  which,  while 
consulting  others,  inquires  still  more  of  the  oracle 
within  itself,  and  uses  instruction  from  abroad, 
not  to  supersede,  but  to  quicken  and  exalt  its  own 
energies. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  sets  no  bounds  to 
its  love,  which  is  not  imprisoned  in  itself  or  in  a 
sect,  which  recognizes  in  all  human  beings  the 
image  of  God  and  the  rights  of  his  children,  which 
delights  in  virtue  and  sympathizes  with  suffering, 
wherever  they  are  seen,  which  conquers  pride, 
anger  and  sloth,  and  offers  itself  up  a willing  vic- 
tim to  the  cause  of  mankind. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  is  not  passively 
framed  by  outward  circumstances,  which  is  not 
swept  away  by  the  torrent  of  events,  which  is  not 
the  creature  of  accidental  impulse,  but  which 

7# 


78 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


bends  events  to  its  own  improvement,  and  acts 
from  an  inward  spring,  from  immutable  princi- 
ples which  it  has  deliberately  espoused. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  protects  itself 
against  the  usurpations  of  society,  which  does  not 
cower  to  human  opinion,  which  feels  itself  ac- 
countable to  a higher  tribunal  than  man’s,  which 
respects  a higher  law  than  fashion,  which  respects 
itself  too  much  to  be  the  slave  or  tool  of  the  many 
or  the  few. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which,  through  confidence 
in  God,  and  in  the  power  of  virtue,  has  cast  off 
all  fear  but  that  of  wrong  doing,  which  no  menace 
or  peril  can  enthral,  which  is  calm  in  the  midst  of 
tumults,  and  possesses  itself,  though  all  else  be 
lost. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  resists  the  bondage 
of  habit,  which  does  not  mechanically  repeat 
itself  and  copy  the  past,  which  does  not  live  on  its 
old  virtues,  which  does  not  enslave  itself  to  pre- 
cise rules,  but  which  forgets  what  is  behind, 
listens  for  new  and  higher  monitions  of  con- 
science, and  rejoices  to  pour  itself  forth  in  fresh 
and  higher  exertions. 

I call  that  mind  free,  which  is  jealous  of  its  own 
freedom,  which  guards  itself  from  being  merged 
in  others,  which  guards  its  empire  over  itself  as 
nobler  than  the  empire  of  the  world. 

In  fine,  I call  that  mind  free,  which,  conscious 
of  its  affinity  with  God,  and  confiding  in  his 
promises  by  Jesus  Christ,  devotes  itself  faithfully 


SPIRITUAL  FREEDOM. 


79 


to  the  unfolding  of  all  its  powers,  which  passes 
the  bounds  of  time  and  death,  which  hopes  to 
advance  forever,  and  which  finds  inexhaustible 
power,  both  for  action  and  suffering,  in  the  pros- 
pect of  immortality. 

Such  is  the  spiritual  freedom  which  Christ 
came  to  give.  It  consists  in  moral  force,  in  self- 
control,  in  the  enlargement  of  thought  and  affec- 
tion, and  in  the  unrestrained  action  of  our  best 
powers.  This  is  the  great  good  of  Christianity  ; 
nor  can  we  conceive  a greater  within  the  gift  of 
God. 


THE  WHITE  HARE. 


By  Mrs.  Wells. 


It  was  the  Sabbath  eve — we  went, 

My  Geraldine  and  I,  intent 
The  twilight  hour  to  pass, 

Where  we  might  hear  the  water  flow, 
And  scent  the  freighted  winds  that  blow 
Athwart  the  vernal  grass. 

In  darker  grandeur— as  the  day 
Stole  scarce  perceptibly  away — 

The  purple  mountain  stood, 

Wearing  the  young  moon  as  a crest ; 
The  sun,  half  sunk  in  the  far  west, 
Seemed  mingling  with  the  flood. 

The  cooling  dews  their  balm  distilled ; 

A holy  joy  our  bosoms  thrilled  ; 

Our  thoughts  were  free  as  air  ; 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  did  we 
Together  pour  instinctively 
Our  songs  of  gladness  there. 

The  greenwood  waved  its  shade  hard  by, 
While  thus  we  wove  our  harmony  : 


THE  WHITE  HARE. 


SI 


Lured  by  the  mystic  strain, 

A snow-white  hare,  that  long  had  been 
Peering  forth  from  her  covert  green, 
Came  bounding  o’er  the  plain. 

Her  beauty  ’t  was  a joy  to  note — 

The  pureness  of  her  downy  coat — • 

Her  wild,  yet  gentle  eye — - 
The  pleasure  that,  despite  of  fear, 

Had  led  the  timid  thing  so  near, 

To  list  our  minstrelsy. 

All  motionless,  with  head  inclined, 

She  stood,  as  if  her  heart  divined 
The  impulses  of  ours, 

Till  the  last  note  had  died — and  then 
Turned  half  reluctantly  again 
Back  to  her  greenwood  bowers. 

Once  more  the  magic  sounds  we  tried— 
Again  the  hare  was  seen  to  glide 
From  out  her  sylvan  shade  ; 

Again — as  joy  had  given  her  wings, 
Fleet  as  a bird  she  forward  springs 
Along  the  dewy  glade. 

Go,  happy  thing  ! disport  at  will— 
Take  thy  delight  o’er  vale  and  hill, 

Or  rest  in  leafy  bower : 

The  harrier  may  beset  thy  way, 

The  cruel  snare  thy  feet  betray 
Enjoy  thy  little  hour  ! 


S2 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


We  know  not,  and  we  ne’er  may  know, 
The  hidden  springs  of  joy  and  wo, 

That  deep  within  do  lie ; 

The  silent  workings  of  thy  heart 
Do  almost  seem  to  have  a part 
With  our  humanity. 


STANZAS. 


By  Mrs.  Gilman. 


Written  on  journeying  in  the  Low  Country  of  South  Carolina. 


Cheerless  to  me  ye  do  not  seem, 

Tall  pines  that  hide  the  solar  beam, 

And  stand  in  firm  array ; 

Nor  when,  like  warriors,  stern  and  tall, 
By  the  swart  woodman’s  axe  ye  fall, 

Still  ponderous  in  decay. 

I love  to  see  each  stately  head, 

With  clouds  for  waving  plumage  spread, 
And  helms  of  “ living  green  ” — 

I love  to  see  the  solemn  lend, 

To  which  your  lofty  forms  ye  bend, 
When  breezes  come  unseen. 

Fit  music  are  the  rushing  sounds, 

With  which  the  lonely  wood  abounds, 
For  your  majestic  file  ; 

Like  autumn  winds  o’er  ocean’s  swell 
They  come  of  wondrous  power  to  tell, 
And  ye  must  stoop  awhile. 

Fit  death  for  such  the  fearful  crash, 
Which,  at  the  lightning’s  dazzling  flash, 


84 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Lays  all  your  honors  low ; — 

Fit  dirge  for  these  the  wood-birds’  cry, 
When  to  their  frightened  young  they  fly, 
As  the  tall  branches  go. 

Wild  Mistletoe  ! not  sad  to  me, 

Thy  flowing  drapery  wanders  free, 

Upon  the  old  oak’s  bough  ; 

Not  with  the  Druid’s  awe-struck  eye, 

I see  thee  raise  thy  banners  high, 

And  twine  its  withered  brow. 

The  oak  indeed  has  reared  its  doom, 

And  seems  to  stand  before  its  tomb, 

The  loneliest  of  the  race  ; 

But  on  its  seared  and  aged  head, 

The  Mistletoe’s  dark  foliage  spread, 
Imparts  a pious  grace. 

Not  here,  I own — not  here  arise 
Tall  spires,  that,  pointing  to  the  skies, 
Direct  the  thought  sublime  ; 

Not  here  the  orchard  blushing  bright, 
Gives  its  rich  fruitage  to  the  light, 

As  in  my  northern  clime. 

But  hush  ! the  thought  of  distant  hills, 
Meadows  of  green,  and  gurgling  rills, 
That  charmed  my  early  days  ! 

My  mind,  my  mind  shall  be  to  me, 

All  that  in  other  climes  we  see, 

And  God  shall  teach  me  praise ! 


A THANKSGIVING  DREAM: 


By  Richard  Hildreth. 


I dreamed  a dream,  and  behold ! a table  was 
set  for  a Thanksgiving  Dinner,  and  there  were 
gathered  together,  from  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth,  flesh,  fish,  and  fruits  of  the  field.  I gazed 
upon  them  with  delight,  and  was  fast  making  up 
my  mind,  indeed,  to  a much  more  satisfactory 
mode  of  examination,  when,  as  I seized  upon  a 
knife  and  fork  for  the  purpose,  I heard  a grum 
voice  from  the  upper  end  of  the  table — “ Gentle- 
men, please  to  come  to  order!”  The  crowd 
immediately  began  to  arrange  itself  in  files.  The 
voice  I presently  perceived  to  have  come  from  a 
venerable  looking  turkey,  who  rolled  sideways 
out  of  the  dish  in  which  he  had  lain  trussed  and 
smoking  from  the  spit,  burst  the  pack-thread  fet- 
ters that  bound  his  clawless  stumps,  and  mounted 
with  great  dignity  upon  an  enormous  apple- 
dumpling, where  he  seated  himself  in  state,  like 
the  Chancellor  of  England  on  the  woolsack. 
The  meeting  thus  being  organized,  the  Moderator 
delivered  the  following  address  : 

“ Gentlemen  of  the  Thanksgiving  Dinner  : — We 
are  assembled  again  on  this  anniversary,  to  take 
8 


86 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


into  consideration  the  manifold  and  intolerable 
grievances  which  we  have  all  been  subjected  to, 
by  this  tyrannical  and  gluttonous  practice  of  the 
Yankee  nation.  [ Loud  applause  from  the  whole 
assembly. ] Gentlemen,  this  terrible  day  continues 
to  sweep  off  yearly  its  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  our  unfortunate  brother  fowls  and 
quadrupeds,  and  if  it  continues  to  be  celebrated 
much  longer,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  breed  of 
turkeys  may  become  extinct.  It  is  time  that  a 
united  effort  be  made  to  preserve  the  gobbling 
race  from  destruction.  [Cheers  from  all  the  tur- 
keys present .]  Not  only  on  us,  but  on  the  devoted 
heads  of  the  goose  tribe  also  do  the  deeds  of  this 
evil  day  fall  bloodily.  [Hear ! hear ! from  a 
green  gosling .]  O geese ! will  you  suffer  your- 
selves to  be  plucked  forever?  [A  general  hiss: 
and  cries  of  no ! no  /]  I call  upon  you  also,  ye 
ducks,  to  contribute  your  efforts  to  avert  the 
general  ruin  ! [ Cries  of  ‘ quick ! quick ! quick ! J 

from  the  ducks.]  The  other  members  of  this 
respectable  assembly  I would  also  appeal  to,  and 
remind  them  of  their  several  and  individual 
wrongs.  O fowls  of  the  barn-yard ! what  hen- 
roost is  sacred  from  the  ravages  of  the  fell  de- 
stroyer? [Immense  cackling  among  the  poultry.] 
Oh  harmless  calves  and  sheep ! are  not  your 
ranks  thinned  by  the  autumnal  slaughterer  who, 
unsatisfied  with  the  delicacies  of  the  feathered 
creation,  adds  even  the  enormity  of  head  and 
pluck  to  his  piles  of  preposterous  luxury  ? [A 


A THANKSGIVING  DREAM. 


87 


general  baa-ing.]  And  you,  unfortunate  sucking 
pigs ! sweet  emblems  of  innocence  ! How  often 
do  your  lovely  infant  countenances  cast  a gleam 
of  rueful  despair  at  the  inexorable  jaws  of  the 
tin-kitchen,  in  which  the  horrible  Thanksgiving 
Day  dooms  you  to  be  £ cabined,  cribbed,  con- 
fined,’ and  make  more  turns  roundabout  than  a 
modern  politician  ! [Hear ! hear  ! from  the  pigs , 
accompanied  by  a general  grunt  of  sympathy. ] 
Friends,  countrymen,  and  fellow-sufferers,  favor 
us  with  your  counsel.  Ye  valiant  turkeys,  lift 
up  your  heads.  Learned  geese,  display  your 
wisdom.  Young  ducks,  quack  defiance  to  the 
Governor’s  proclamation.  And  oh  ! sweet  pigs ! 
ye  musical  sons  of  thunder  ! set  up  your  pipes 
and  squeal  a deafening  chorus  into  the  ears  of 
the  Massachusetts  Executive  Council.  1 Down 
with  that  gormandizing  hobgoblin,  the  genius  of 
Thanksgiving  Day.’  ” [Thunders  of  applause .] 
The  Moderator  having  concluded,  an  old  gan- 
der arose  and  addressed  the  chair.  ££  Mr.  Mode- 
rator,” said  he,  ££  give  me  leave  to  express  my 
entire  and  cordial  approbation  of  the  sentiments 
you  have  uttered.  This  horrible  day,  is,  indeed, 
a day  of  mourning  for  the  whole  feathered  crea- 
tion. Seventy  years  have  I witnessed  its  mon- 
strous ravages,  hoping  fondly  to  escape  the  gene- 
ral proscription.  Alas,  how  vain  my  calculations ! 
A week  ago  I was  seized  by  a caitiff  Roxbury 
farmer — may  a drum-stick  choke  him  ! — and 
slaughtered  for  the  Boston  market.  Behold  me 


88 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


plucked  of  my  plumage,  and  not  so  much  as  a 
tail  feather  left  to  wag  in  doleful  dumps  ! Alas, 
what  ills  is  goose-flesh  heir  to  ! Mr.  Moderator, 
I move  that  Thanksgiving  be,  and  it  is  hereby 
abolished.”  [Great  cheering  among  the  geese.] 
Here  a black  duck  arose  and  began  to  suggest 
doubts  as  to  the  efficacy  of  the  measure  proposed 
by  his  web-footed  brother.  “It  is  useless,  Mr. 
Moderator,”  said  he,  “to  waste  time  upon  so 
nugatory  a scheme  as  this.  We  have  not  a 
moment  to  spare,  it  being  now  within  two  hours 
of  dinner  time,  for  the  sermon  is  at  least  half 
through,  and  I see,  through  the  window  panes  of 
yonder  church,  a most  multivorous  and  duck- 
devouring  appetite,  written  in  the  faces  of  every 
mother’s  son  in  the  congregation.  Sir,  we  have 
not  two  hours  to  live.  Let  us  adopt  some  decisive 
measure.  Abolish  Thanksgiving  ! a fiddlestick  ! 
What  individual  among  the  two-legged  monsters 
will  care  for  that?  Such  a project  is  worthy  of 
the  goose  that  hatched  it.”  [Loud  cries  of  ‘ Order  ! 
order ! ’ from  every  part  of  the  table.] 

A gray  squirrel  then  rose,  scratching  from  his 
face  the  crumbs  of  pastry  which  had  smothered 
him  in  a meat-pie,  and  wiping  his  eyes  with  the 
end  of  his  tail,  spoke  to  the  following  purport : 
“Mr.  Moderator,  as  my  friend  the  black  duck 
says,  this  is  a time  for  action.  We  ought  not  to 
spend  time  in  nibbling  about  the  nut-shell,  but 
strike  at  once  into  the  meat  and  kernel  of  the 
matter.  How  do  I regret  that  any  gentleman  of 


A THANKSGIVING  DREAM. 


89 


this  assembly  should  indulge  in  personalities. 
This  is  no  place  for  private  piques  and  party 
animosities.  Let  ducks  and  geese  go  amicably 
claw  in  claw,  and  paddle  onward  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  great  purpose.  Allow  me  still 
to  remark,  that  the  proposition  of  my  respected 
friend  the  gander,  is  in  my  opinion  hardly  suita- 
ble to  the  present  emergency.  I hope  that  gentle- 
man will  display  his  customary  wisdom,  and 
withdraw  his  motion.”  [ Here  loud  murmurs 

arose  from  all  the  goose  tribe , a?id  cries  of  L Ques- 
tion! question!'] 

A sucking  pig  then  took  the  floor.  “ It  is  the 
opinion,”  said  he,  “ of  many  of  my  learned  friends, 
that  we  should  use  our  endeavors  to  convert  the 
Governor  and  Council  into  Jews ; for  then,” 
added  he — with  great  feeling — “ comes  the  day 
of  deliverance  for  the  swinish  multitude.  Under 
the  Jewish  dispensation,  if  the  abomination  of 
Thanksgiving  were  continued,  which  I very 
much  doubt,  it  would  at  least  be  attended  with  a 
prohibition  of  pork,  in  all  shapes,  on  that  day.  I 
propose,  therefore,  to  bring  forward  a motion  for 
the  conversion  of  the  afore-mentioned  dignitaries, 
in  the  first  place,  and  the  Board  of  Boston  Aider- 
men  afterward.” 

An  oyster,  who  had  hitherto  remained  snug 
and  silent,  now  begged  the  indulgence  of  the 
assembly.  He  hoped  to  see  something  done  for 
shell-fish.  The  epicures  of  Thanksgiving  Day 
had  grown  so  absorbingly  greedy,  that  oyster- 
8* 


90 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


sauce  had  become  a standing  dish.  The  liberty 
of  the  seas  was  no  longer  inviolate.  It  was  with 
the  deepest  melancholy  that  he  informed  the 
assembly  he  had  it  from  the  best  authority,  that 
the  city  government  had  recently  rescinded  an 
ordinance  prohibiting  the  sale  of  oysters  during 
certain  months  of  the  year.  “ No  day  of  the 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five,”  continued  he,  with 
great  emotion,  “ is  a day  of  rest  for  us.”  He  was 
proceeding  at  some  length,  in  the  same  strain, 
when  he  was  called  to  order  by  a sheep’s  head, 
and  reminded  that  he  was  digressing.  A violent 
altercation  ensued  between  the  two  members,  and 
several  hard  words  passed  from  one  to  another. 
The  oyster  told  the  sheep’s  head  to  give  him  none 
of  his  jaw ; which  the  sheep’s  head  retorted  by 
desiring  the  oyster  to  shut  up  his  clam-shell. 

Order  being  at  length  restored,  the  Moderator 
called  upon  the  Standing  Committee  to  report 
their  proceedings  since  the  last  anniversary  meet- 
ing. A gray  goose,  whom  I found  to  be  Chair- 
man of  the  Committee,  then  rose  and  read  a report, 
stating  that  since  they  had  the  honor  of  sitting 
upon  this  most  important  business,  various  cir- 
cumstances had  arisen  to  afford  the  most  pleasing 
encouragements  to  the  prosecution  of  the  great 
enterprize  in  hand.  “Of  late  years,”  the  report 
went  on  to  say,  “the  disorder  known  by  the 
name  of  dyspepsia,  had  increased  to  so  remarka- 
ble a degree,  as  to  cause  great  alarm  among  all 
people,  both  in  town  and  country ; and  the  afore- 


A THANKSGIVING  DREAM. 


91 


said  complaint  was  well  known  to  be  mainly 
caused  by  an  over-attachment  to  the  dinner  table. 
They  had  therefore  the  pleasure  of  informing  the 
meeting,  that  there  were  not  only  Temperance 
Societies  without  number  in  the  land,  but  that 
meats  as  well  as  drinks  had  now  fallen  under 
the  ban  of  the  big-wigs,  and  that  there  had  actu- 
ally been  proposed  in  the  all-consuming,  all- 
devouring  city  of  Boston,  an  association  entitled 
‘ the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Eating.’  ” 
[Most  overpowering  thunders  of  applause  from 
every  part  of  the  table.  ] 

The  report  having  been  read  and  accepted,  and 
the  thanks  of  the  meeting  being  presented  to  the 
Committee  for  their  meritorious  services,  the  fol- 
lowing resolutions  were  proposed  and  carried, 
nem.  con . 

Resolved,  That  Thanksgiving  Day  is  a griev- 
ance not  to  be  borne. 

Resolved , That  the  Society  for  the  Suppression 
of  Eating,  has  our  most  sincere  and  hearty  good 
wishes  for  its  success. 

Resolved , That  each  and  every  member  of  this 
assembly,  whether  turkey,  fowl,  duck,  teal,  wid- 
geon, coot,  calf’s  head,  oyster,  sucking  pig,  lob- 
ster, plum-pudding,  apple-dumpling,  cranberry- 
tart,  minced-pie,  custard,  or  cream-cake,  pledge 
himself,  herself,  and  themselves,  jointly  and 
severally,  to  proceed  forthwith,  on  the  night  of 
each  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  sit,  with  overpow- 
ering weight,  like  unto  a mill-stone,  upon  the 


92 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


conscience  and  stomach  of  the  Governor  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, the  members  of  the  Executive  Council, 
the  Mayor  of  Boston,  the  Board  of  Aldermen, 
and  every  individual  whose  rotundity  of  the  out- 
ward man  showeth  token  of  dinner-eating  pro- 
pensity— giving  unto  all  and  singular  afore-named, 
a perennial  fit  of  the  night-mare,  until  Thanks- 
giving Day  be  abolished.  Resolved , moreover, 
that  every  minister,  Avho  shall  read  the  Governor’s 
proclamation  for  Thanksgiving,  be  considered  as 
coming  within  the  above-mentioned  penalty. 

These  resolutions  being  engrossed  and  put  to 
the  vote,  the  Moderator  declared  the  meeting 
adjourned;  when,  methought,  the  whole  table 
burst  into  confusion — turkeys,  geese,  puddings, 
pies,  all  began  to  dance  about,  and  a calf’s  head 
jumped  up  from  a pewter  dish,  and  gave  me  a 
sharp  bite  by  the  ear. 

So  much  for  sleeping  in  meeting ! But  for  a 
waggish  boy  who  jogged  me  as  the  congregation 
were  passing  out,  I should  have  suffered  that 
greatest  of  all  catastrophes — the  loss  of  my 
Thanksgiving  Dinner. 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


By  George  Lunt. 

Again  upon  the  sounding  shore, 

And — oh  how  blest — again  alone  ! 

I could  not  bear  to  hear  thy  roar, 

Thy  deep,  thy  long,  majestic  tone — 

I could  not  bear  to  think  that  one 
Could  view  with  me  thy  swelling  might, 

And,  like  a very  stock  or  stone, 

Turn  coldly  from  the  glorious  sight, 

And  seek  the  idle  world,  to  hate,  and  fear,  and  fight. 

Thou  art  the  same,  Eternal  Sea ! 

The  earth  has  many  shapes  and  forms, 

Of  hill  and  valley,  flower  and  tree — 

Fields  that  the  fervid  noontide  warms, 

Or  winter’s  rugged  grasp  deforms, 

Or  bright  with  autumn’s  golden  store ; 

Thou  coverest  up  thy  face  with  storms, 

Or  smilest  serene — but  still  thy  roar 
And  dazzling  foam  go  up,  to  vex  the  sea-beat  shore. 

I see  thy  heaving  waters  roll, 

I hear  thy  stem  uplifted  voice, 

And  trumpet-like  upon  my  soul 


94 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Falls  the  deep  music  of  that  noise, 

Wherewith  thou  dost  thyself  rejoice ; 

The  ships  that  on  thy  bosom  play — 

Thou  dashest  them  about  like  toys, 

And  stranded  navies  are  thy  prey, 

Strewn  on  the  rock-bound  coast,  torn  by  thy  whirling 
spray. 

At  summer  twilight  soft  and  calm, 

Or  when  in  stormy  grandeur  dressed, 

Peals  up  to  heaven  the  eternal  psalm 
That  swells  within  thy  boundless  breast ; 

Thy  curling  waters  have  no  rest, 

But,  day  and  night,  the  ceaseless  throng 
Of  waves,  that  wait  thy  high  behest, 

Speak  out  in  utterance  deep  and  strong, 

And  loud  the  craggy  beach  howls  back  their  savage 
sons*. 

Terrible  art  thou  in  thy  wrath — 

Terrible  in  thine  hour  of  glee — 

When  the  strong  winds,  upon  their  path, 

Bound  o’er  thy  breast  tumultuously, 

And  shout  their  chorus  loud  and  free 
To  the  sad  sea-bird’s  mournful  wail, 

As,  heaving  with  the  heaving  sea, 

The  broken  mast  and  shattered  sail 
Tell  of  thy  cruel  strength  the  lamentable  tale. 

Ay,  ’t  is  indeed  a glorious  sight 

To  gaze  upon  thine  ample  face,  j 

An  awful  joy — a deep  delight ! 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


95 


I see  thy  laughing  waves  embrace 
Each  other  in  their  frolic  race ; 

I sit  above  the  flashing  spray 
That  foams  around  this  rocky  base, 

And,  as  the  bright  blue  waters  play, 

Feel  that  my  thoughts,  my  life,  perchance,  are  vain  as 
they. 

This  is  thy  lesson,  Mighty  Sea ! 

Man  calls  the  dimpled  earth  his  own, 

The  flowery  vale — the  golden  lea ; — 

And  on  the  wild  gray  mountain  stone 
Claims  nature’s  temple  for  his  throne ! 

But  where  thy  many  voices  sing 
Their  endless  song,  the  deep,  deep  tone 
Calls  back  his  spirit’s  airy  wing ; 

He  shrinks  into  himself,  where  God  alone  is  King ! 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  SUPREME  BEING. 


By  Jacob  Abbott. 

It  is  June.  We  walk  out  in  some  retired  and 
uninhabited  region,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest,  and 
find  all  nature  thronged  with  active  and  happy 
life.  Insects  unnumbered  sport  in  the  sun,  or 
skip  upon  the  bright  surface  of  the  lake.  Nimble 
animals  chase  one  another  upon  the  branches  of 
the  trees,  or  hide  in  hollow  trunks,  or  gather  nuts 
and  fruits  which  fall  around  them,  in  inexhausti- 
ble profusion.  And  what  is  all  this  for?  Perhaps 
for  hundreds  of  miles  around,  there  is  not  a human 
habitation  ; no  human  eye  will  witness  this  scene, 
and  no  human  want  will  he  supplied  by  anything 
it  produces.  What  is  it  for?  What  motive  in- 
duces these  efforts  ? Why,  it  is  because  this 
mighty  architect,  whose  power  is  so  great,  and 
whose  field  is  so  boundless,  loves  to  exercise  that 
power  in  every  corner  of  that  wide-spread  field, 
for  the  purpose  of  producing  enjoyment.  No  per- 
son can  look  on  such  a scene,  with  anything  like 
proper  views  of  it,  without  feeling  a glow  of  new 
interest  and  warmer  attachment  towards  its 
mighty  Author.  The  mere  proofs  of  power  and 
contri  vance  and  skill,  in  the  specimens  of  median- 


LOVE  OF  THE  SUPREME  BEING. 


97 


ism  which  have  been  noticed,  awaken  strong  in- 
tellectual interest ; — but  it  touches  the  heart,  and 
awakens  a deeper  and  warmer  emotion  there, 
when  we  see  this  architect,  while  actually  carry- 
ing on  the  mighty  mechanism  of  the  heavens, 
still  busily  engaged  in  this  secluded  valley,  filling 
thousands  and  millions  of  his  creatures  with  en- 
joyment, as  if  taking  pleasure  in  witnessing  the 
frolics  of  an  insect;  and  drawing  so  copiously 
upon  his  stores  of  skill  and  power,  to  make  a 
squirrel  or  a robin  happy. 

The  robin  ! — -just  look  for  a moment  at  his  nest 
in  the  midst  of  this  valley  of  peace.  It  is  fixed 
securely  in  a cluster  of  branches,  sheltered  just 
enough  by  the  foliage  around,  and  in  it  are  three 
or  four  tender,  helpless,  unfledged  birds  lying 
together.  The  open  air  and  the  broad  sky  are  over 
their  heads  ; nothing  but  the  hanging  leaf  protects 
them  from  an  enemy.  They  have  no  power  to 
fly,  no  power  to  resist;  hunger  is  coming  on,  and 
they  cannot  provide  food  ; but  they  lie  alone  and 
helpless  and  weak,  the  very  picture  of  defence- 
lessness and  exposure. 

But  they  are  safe  and  happy.  God  makes  them 
his  care.  They  cannot  bear  cold;  He  has 
guarded  them  against  it,  by  so  poising  the  pon- 
derous earth,  and  so  carefully  regulating  its  mo- 
tions, that  no  nipping  frost,  and  no  storm  of  snow 
can  possibly  come  to  desolate  their  little  dwelling. 
They  cannot  defend  themselves  from  violence,  or 
escape  from  it.  True ; and  God  has  so  regulated 
9 


98 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


the  instincts  and  propensities  of  the  millions  of 
living  things  around  them,  that  they  shall  be  ex- 
posed to  none.  They  cannot  provide  themselves 
with  food,  and  it  will  take  but  very  few 
hours  to  bring  them  to  excruciating  suffering 
unless  they  are  supplied.  But  they  will  be 
supplied.  God  has  sent  out  his  messengers  to 
provide  for  them.  One  flies  from  tree  to  tree  in 
a distant  part  of  the  forest,  and  the  other  perhaps 
hops  upon  the  shore  of  the  brook  or  pond.  The 
trees  around  them  are  filled  with  thousands  of 
other  birds,  alluring  them  by  their  songs,  and 
brighter  vales  and  more  shady  trees  invite  them 
to  stay.  But  no.  God  has  bound  them  to  one 
another,  and  to  their  helpless  young,  by  a 
mechanism  as  incomprehensible  as  it  is  beautiful 
in  its  results.  It  allows  them  to  fly  free  and 
unfettered  as  they  choose,  but  it  retains  its  indis- 
soluble hold  wherever  they  go.  No  song  of  a 
stranger  will  make  them  forget  one  another;  no 
other  nest  will  lead  them  to  forget  their  own  ; no 
sunny  bank  or  shady  grove  will  have  charms 
enough  to  detain  them;  but  faithful  to  their  trust, 
they  toil  industriously  through  the  day,  and  un- 
less death  or  violence  keep  them  away,  they  will 
be  ready  with  their  supply,  when  at  night  their 
helpless  young  open  their  mouths  and  cry  for 
food.  We  cannot  comprehend  the  admirable  me- 
chanism by  which  these  results  are  secured,  but 
we  love  the  character  which  our  Father  manifests 
in  securing  them. 


LOVE  OF  THE  SUPREME  BEING. 


99 


Now  let  us  change  the  scene.  It  is  January,  and 
we  walk  out  into  the  same  forest,  and  look  upon 
the  same  stream  which  in  summer  was  the  scene 
of  so  much  life  and  activity  and  happiness.  How 
changed  ! Where  are  the  insects  now,  which 
sported  in  the  sunbeams,  on  the  glassy  surface  of 
the  water?  That  surface  is  still  more  glassy 
now, — solid  and  cold, — and  over  it  scud  the  dry 
wreaths  of  snow  before  the  bleak  wind.  Where 
are  now  the  thousand  forms  of  happy  life,  which 
enlivened  every  bank  and  fluttered  from  flower  to 
flower  ? Alas  ! sunny  bank,  and  gay  flower,  and 
verdant  turf  are  gone ! The  deep  snow  clothes 
the  whole  surface  of  the  ground,  covering  every 
smaller  plant,  and  rising  around  the  naked  trunks 
of  the  tall  trees,  hanging  in  wreaths  over  the 
banks,  and  fast  accumulating,  as  the  driving 
wintry  storm  brings  on  fresh  supplies  from  God’s 
inexhaustible  treasuries.  Where  is  that  happy 
home  among  the  branches  of  the  tree?  The 
leaves  which  sheltered  it  are  gone,  a mass  of 
drifting  snow  marks  the  spot  where  the  desolate 
and  forsaken  habitation  remains,  and  the  cold 
dreary  wind  whistles  through  the  naked  branches 
around.  Has  God  left— is  a very  natural  inquiry 
— has  He  left  all  these  millions  of  his  creatures  to 
be  overwhelmed  with  destruction? 

No ; scarcely  one.  He  has  secured  and  pro- 
tected them  all.  Never  did  the  most  cautious 
husbandman  lay  in  his  stores,  and  prepare  his 
clothing,  and  secure  the  warmth  and  tightness  of 


100 


TIIE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


his  buildings,  with  half  the  efficiency  of  foresight 
and  care  which  God  exhibits  every  autumn,  in 
shutting  up,  in  places  of  safety  and  protection,  all 
the  varieties  of  animal  and  vegetable  life.  The 
storm  and  the  wintry  cold  are  not  allowed  to 
come  till  he  has  given  maturity  and  strength  to 
the  helpless  birds,  and  sent  them  away  to  warmer 
climes.  Other  animals  have,  in  obedience  to  an 
impulse  of  which  they  could  not  know  the  nature 
and  design,  been  industriously  employed  during 
the  summer,  in  laying  in  their  winter  stores;  and 
are  now  sheltered  in  holes,  or  hollow  trunks,  sleep- 
ing undisturbed  in  the  midst  of  a plenty  which 
God  has  provided  for  them.  Even  the  insect  tribes, 
so  delicate  and  frail,  are  all  safe.  By  a most  admi- 
rable arrangement,  generation  succeeds  generation 
in  a way  so  ordered,  that  the  animal  life  of  a whole 
species  exists  in  such  a form,  at  the  approach  of 
winter,  that  ice  and  cold  and  snow  can  produce 
neither  injury  nor  pain.  In  these  and  in  other 
ways,  God  has  secured  for  all,  protection  and 
exemption  from  suffering;  and  when  the  first 
wintry  midnight  storm  roars  through  the  forest, 
it  finds  everything  prepared  for  it.  Every  nest  is 
empty,  and  its  inmates  are  safe  in  another  clime. 
All  insect  existence  is  protected,  and  the  field 
mouse,  and  even  the  little  ant,  are  carefully 
housed  in  their  warm,  sheltered  and  plentiful 
homes. 


THE  EXILE  AT  REST. 


By  John  Pierpont. 

His  falchion  flashed  along  the  Nile, 

His  host  he  led  through  Alpine  snows ; 

O’er  Moscow’s  towers,  that  blazed  the  while, 
His  eagle-flag  unrolled — and  froze  ! 

Here  sleeps  he  now,  alone  ! — not  one 
Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 

Bends  o’er  his  dust ; nor  wife  nor  son 
Has  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Behind  the  sea-girt  rock,  the  star 

That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown 

Has  sunk,  and  nations  from  afar 
Gazed  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 

High  is  his  tomb  : the  ocean  flood 
Far,  far  below,  by  storms  is  curled — 

As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 

A stormy  and  unstable  world. 

Alone  he  sleeps  : the  mountain  cloud, 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 

Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 

That  wraps  the  conqueror’s  clay  in  death. 


9 * 


102 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Pause  here ! The  far-off  world  at  last 

Breathes  free ; the  hand  that  shook  its  thrones, 
And  to  the  earth  its  mitres  cast, 

Lies  powerless  now,  beneath  these  stones. 

Hark ! Comes  there  from  the  pyramids, 

And  from  Siberian  wastes  of  snow, 

And  Europe’s  hills,  a voice  that  bids 

The  world  be  awed  to  mourn  him  ? No  ! 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge, 

That ’s  heard  here,  is  the  sea-bird’s  cry — 

The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge — 

The  cloud’s  deep  voice — the  wind’s  low  sigh  ! 


MORTAL  AND  IMMORTAL. 


By  R.  C.  Waterston. 


In  soul,  man  mounts  and  flies— 

In  flesh,  he  dies— 

Not  that  he  may  not  here 
Taste  of  the  cheer ; 

But  as  birds  drink,  and  straight  lift  up  their  head, 
So  must  he  sip,  and  think 
Of  better  drink 

He  may  attain  to,  after  he  is  dead. 

Herbert. 


I stand  between  the  Future  and  the  Past — 
That  which  has  been,  and  that  which  is  to 
A feeble  ray  from  the  Eternal  cast, 

A scanty  rill,  that  seeks  a shoreless  sea  ; 
A living  soul,  treading  this  earthly  sod, 

A finite  being,  yet  a child  of  God  : 

A body  crumbling  to  the  dust  away, 

A spirit  panting  for  eternal  peace  ; 

A heavenly  kingdom  in  a frame  of  clay. 

An  infant  angel,  fluttering  for  release  ; 

An  erring  man,  whose  race  has  just  begun, 
A pilgrim,  journeying  on  from  sun  to  sun  : 


104 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Creature  of  clay,  yet  heir  of  future  life, 

Dweller  upon  a world  I shall  outlive ; 

Soldier  of  Christ,  battling  midst  earthly  strife, 

Yet  hoping,  by  that  strength  which  God  may  give, 
To  burst  the  doors  of  death,  and  glorying  rise 
Triumphant  from  the  grave,  to  tread  the  skies ! 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


By  Leonard  Withington. 


Just  one  mile  two  furlongs  and  seven  rods  from 
my  grandfather’s  house,  on  a sightly  hill  called 
Mount  Pleasant,  stood  the  abode  of  Jonathan  Old- 
bug,  my  father,  in  whose  spacious  but  decaying 
mansion  I spent  part  of  my  time ; for  I would 
not  have  the  reader  imagine,  that  my  parents 
were  always  so  negligent  as  to  leave  me  perpetu- 
ally to  write’rebuses  with  my  uncle  Gideon,  or  to 
eat  turn-overs  from  the  hand  of  my  aunt  Han- 
nah. 

My  father  was  a tall,  stately  man,  with  one 
good  coat,  which  he  kept  to  wear  to  meeting, 
one  decent  pair  of  shoes,  which  lasted,  in  my 
memory,  seven  years,  one  cotton  shirt,  with  a 
linen  collar  to  it, — and  he  was  sometimes  com- 
pelled to  lie  in  bed,  in  order  that  it  might  be 
washed.  He  dwelt  in  a large  house,  whose  ex- 
terior, though  not  splendid,  was  much  preferable 
to  some  of  the  rooms  within  ; it  was  surrounded 
with  a white  fence,  with  some  of  the  parts  broken 
down,  a front  gate  swung  up  on  one  hinge,  several 
of  the  window  panes  were  broken,  on  two  of  the 


106 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


front  windows  hung  two  shattered  blinds,  which 
had  once  been  green,  and  before  the  house,  as 
you  entered  the  garden,  grew  two  spacious  lime 
trees,  forming  a grateful  shade.  As  you  entered 
the  house,  you  came  to  a large,  massy,  oak  door, 
big  enough  to  be  the  gate  of  a castle,  with  an 
iron  knocker  on  it,  shaped  for  a lion,  but  looking 
more  like  a dog ; and  having  entered  the  building, 
you  saw  a front  entry,  the  paper  torn  and  colored 
by  the  rain  ; on  your  left  hand  was  one  room 
covered  with  a carpet,  containing  an  eight-day 
clock,  reaching  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling,  and 
telling  the  age  of  the  moon ; the  other  furniture 
passable ; but  the  rest  of  the  rooms  in  a condition 
which  I blush  to  name.  There,  in  this  stately 
mansion,  dwelt  my  venerable  sire,  who  might 
justly  be  denominated  a jioor  gentleman  ; that  is, 
he  was  a gentleman  in  his  own  estimation,  and 
poor  in  the  esteem  of  everybody  else. 

My  father  was  a man  of  expedients,  and  had 
spent  his  whole  life,  and  exhausted  all  his  in- 
genuity, in  that  adroit  presentation  of  pretences, 
which,  in  common  speech,  is  called  keeping  up 
appearances.  In  this  art  he  was  really  skilful ; 
and  I often  suspected  then,  and  have  really  con- 
cluded since,  if  he  had  turned  half  the  talent  to 
procuring  an  honest  livelihood,  which  he  used  to 
slobber  over  his  ill-dissembled  poverty,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  his  soul  and  body  both.  He 
was  a man  that  never  told  a lie,  unless  it  was  to 
keep  up  appearances . 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


107 


I hope  none  who  hold  this  book,  have  been  re- 
duced to  the  miserable  necessity  of  tying  up  their 
pantaloons  with  pack-thread,  instead  of  lawful 
suspenders;  of  using  a remnant  of  a pillow-case 
for  a pocket-handkerchief;  of  sticking  a bur  on 
their  rent  stocking  to  cover  up  a hole;  and  after 
slitting  their  worn  pantaloons  on  the  knee,  when 
they  had  got  half  way  to  meeting  on  the  Sabbath, 
of  being  obliged  to  tie  a pretended  pocket-hand- 
kerchief over  a pretended  wound,  seeming  to  be 
lame,  and  perhaps  before  they  had  walked  ten 
rods,  forgetting  in  which  leg  the  lameness  was 
seated.  No,  these  are  the  incommunicable  sor- 
rows of  me,  of  me  the  sad  hero  of  a sad  family — 
the  prince  and  heir-apparent  to  the  ragged  genera- 
tion. To  me,  and  to  me  alone,  was  reserved  the 
awful  destiny  of  being  invited  to  a party,  where 
were  to  assemble  the  first  beauties  of  a country 
village — not  daring  to  go  until  evening,  lest  the 
light  of  heaven  should  expose  a thread-bare  coat 
— having  no  clean  shirt — not  even  a dickey  which 
had  not  been  worn  ten  times — supplying  its  place 
with  a piece  of  writing  paper — afraid  to  turn  my 
head,  lest  the  paper  should  rattle  or  be  displaced 
— and  then,  just  as  a poor  wretch  was  exulting 
in  the  hope  that  the  stratagems  of  poverty  were 
to  pass  undetected,  to  have  a lady,  perhaps  the 
youngest  and  most  beautiful  in  the  whole  party, 
come  provokingly  near,  and  beg  to  examine  your 
collar,  because  she  admires  the  pattern.  Often 


108 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


has  it  been  my  lot  to  return  from  the  company, 
where  all  hearts  seemed  to  bound  with  gladness, 
to  water  my  couch  with  tears,  amid  sorrows 
which  I could  tell  to  none,  and  with  which  none 
would  sympathize.  I thought  it  poverty.  But  I 
was  mistaken.  It  was  something  else  which  be- 
gins with  a P. 

And  then  the  awkward  apologies  to  which  one 
is  reduced  in  such  a situation,  come  very  near 
to  a mendacious  violation  of  real  verity.  Oh ! how 
often  have  I seen  my  honored  father  put  to  his 
trumps,  steering  between  Scylla  and  Charybdis, 
adroitly  adjusting  his  language  so  as  to  make  an 
impression,  without  incurring  a lie,  and  reduced 
to  shifts  by  which  none  were  deceived,  because 
all  understood  them.  Once  on  a time,  after  a 
week’s  starvation  to  procure  a velvet  collar  for 
my  father’s  best  coat,  we  were  sitting  down  to  a 
dinner  of  hasty-pudding  and  molasses,  when,  un- 
luckily, one  of  our  neighbors  happened  to  walk 
in  without  knocking,  (a  very  improper  act,)  and 
we  had  no  time  to  slip  away  the  plates  and  table- 
cloth ^ we  were  taken  in  the  very  act.  I never 
saw  my  poor  father  more  confounded.  A hectic 
flush  passed  over  his  long,  sallow  cheek,  like  the 
last,  sad  bloom  on  the  visage  of  a consumptive 
man.  He  looked,  for  a moment,  almost  like  a 
convicted  criminal;  but,  however,  he  soon  re- 
covered himself,  and  returned  to  his  expedients. 
“ We  thought,”  said  he,  “we  would  have  a plain 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


109 


dinner  to-day;  always  to  eat  roast  turkeys  makes 
one  sick  !”  There  was  no  disputing  this  broad 
maxim. 

In  our  town,  at  the  period  of  my  boyhood,  the 
severity  of  puritan  manners  was  relaxing  into  a 
species  of  gentility ; and  though  my  father  and 
mother  never  went  to  balls  and  theatres,  they 
were  very  fond  of  evening  parties,  where,  after 
cards  and  conversation,  they  closed  their  enjoy- 
ments with  an  elegant  supper.  But,  oh  ! at  what 
an  expense  on  our  poor  purse  were  these  plea- 
sures bought ! Once,  I remember,  to  buy  my 
mother’s  muslin  gown,  we  sold  our  pig,  our  only 
pig,  and  our  only  hope  of  animal  food  through 
the  winter.  And  mark  the  malice  of  mankind 
when  you  are  trying  to  tower  over  them  ! The 
very  next  week  were  written  by  a piece  of  chalk, 
on  the  door  of  Bob  Gill’s  grist-mill,  the  following 
lines,  where  everybody  could  read  them.  They 
were  the  production  of  some  cruel  country  wit, 
whom  I could  almost  have  murdered,  had  I 
known  him  : 


A pig  is  raised  for  food ; — it  makes  you  stare 
To  know  that  pigs  are  ever  raised  to  wear  5 
But  Madam  Oldbug  puts  her  brains  to  rack, 

And  wears  her  pig,  transformed,  upon  her  back. 

How  the  writer  came  to  know  the  fact,  I never 
could  guess ; only  that  hypocrisy,  in  poverty  as 
well  as  in  religion,  is  seldom  long  successful. 
Sometimes  my  mother  would  borrow  her  shawl 
10 


110 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


at  one  place,  and  her  tippet  at  another,  and  her 
cap  at  a third.  Often  would  they  come  home 
late  at  night,  on  a winter  evening,  without  a 
spark  of  fire  on  the  hearth,  or  wood  to  kindle  it ; 
my  mother  shivering  in  her  airy  dress.  I was  sent 
down  cellar  to  pull  off  the  boards  from  the  potato 
crib,  or  to  bring  up  an  old  flour-barrel,  to  light  a 
transient  flame,  blazing  and  dying,  like  the  fading 
joys  on  which  our  hearts  were  set.  Sometimes 
we  would  pull  down  one  part  of  the  house  to  warm 
the  other,  so  that  the  old  mansion  was  made  to 
perform  a double  office,  yielding  us  at  once  shelter 
and  fuel. 

Yet  my  father,  with  all  his  expedients,  was  a 
very  unpopular  man.  Though  he  was  always 
angling  for  public  favor,  he  never  had  skill 
enough  to  put  on  the  bait  so  as  to  conceal  the 
hook,  even  to  the  gudgeons  that  floated  in  our 
shallow  streams.  There  was  a broken  bridge  near 
our  habitation,  and  one  year  he  was  plotting  and 
expecting  to  be  surveyor  of  the  highways,  that 
he  might  mend  it  for  the  public  convenience, 
at  the  public  expense.  He  was  disappointed; 
and  old  Mr.  Slider,  his  rival  and  enemy,  was  put 
into  the  office,  who  suffered  the  bridge  to  remain 
unrepaired,  with  the  ungenerous  sarcasm,  that 
a man  who  lived  in  such  a shattered  house,  might 
well  endure  to  ride  over  a rotten  bridge.  There 
was  a militia  company,  and  my  father  was  ex- 
pecting to  be  chosen  captain,  especially  as  he  had 
been  in  the  revolutionary  army,  and  had  actually 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


Ill 


spoken  to  General  Washington.  But,  at  the  age 
of  forty-one,  they  chose  him  orderly  sergeant, 
which  office  my  father  refused,  declaring,  with 
much  spitting  and  sputtering,  that  he  would  never 
serve  his  ungrateful  country  again.  Thus  closed 
his  military  honors : he  was  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity of  finding  the  post  of  virtue  in  a private  sta- 
tion. 

I have  heard  that  the  only  way  to  cure  ambi- 
tion, is  to  starve  it  to  death  ; and  all  the  world 
seemed  to  combine  to  remove  my  father’s  favorite 
passion  by  that  unwelcome  medicine.  Once  we 
had  determined  to  have  a large  party  at  our 
house,  and  we  desired  to  get  it  up  in  our  very 
best  style.  We  had  invited  all  the  grandees  of 
Bundleborough — Esquire  Wilson,  and  his  one- 
eyed  daughter,  Mrs.  Butterfly,  a retired  milliner, 
Mrs.  Redrose,  a jolly  widow,  Mr.  Wallflower,  a 
broken  merchant,  and  Captain  Casket,  supposed 
to  be  a pensioner  on  the  king  of  Great  Britain. 
We  had  raked  and  scraped,  and  twisted  and 
turned,  to  procure  all  the  money  we  could;  my 
mother  had  sold  pickled  mangoes ; I was  sent  to 
pick  up  mushrooms  in  the  great  pasture ; my 
father  disposed  of  about  two  tons  of  old  salt  hay, 
the  remaining  wheel  of  an  old  ox-cart,  all  his 
pumpkins  and  turnips,  and  about  half  of  his 
Indian  corn,  to  make  up  the  sum  of  fifteen  dollars 
thirty-seven  and  a half  cents,  with  which  we 
were  to  shine  out,  for  one  evening  at  least,  in  all 
the  peacock  feathers  with  which  ingenious  pov- 


112 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


erty  could  cover  over  its  hide-bound,  frost-bitten, 
hunger- wasted  frame.  We  sent  for  all  the  china 
and  glass  we  could  beg  or  borrow ; and  Mr. 
Planewell,  the  carpenter,  was  summoned  to  re- 
pair our  front  gate,  set  up  the  fence,  and  new  lay 
the  step  before  the  front  door ; but,  as  there  was 
very  little  prospect  of  his  ever  being  paid,  he 
could  not  come.  Two  of  the  legs  of  our  dining 
table  were  broken,  and  I was  ordered  to  glue 
them ; but  failing  in  that,  I remember  I tied  them 
together  with  a piece  of  fish-line,  which  was  to 
be  concealed  by  the  depending  table-cloth.  The 
table-cloth  itself  was  of  the  finest  and  nicest 
damask ; though  unluckily,  there  was  a thin  spot 
in  the  middle  of  it,  almost  verging  to  a hole;  but 
this  we  could  conceal  by  the  mat  on  which  we 
laid  the  great  dish  in  the  centre.  My  mother 
had  spent  the  previous  week  in  preparation — 
keeping  the  whole  house  in  confusion,  washing, 
scouring,  cleaning,  adjusting  the  best  chamber, 
where  the  ladies  were  to  take  off  their  bonnets, 
mending  the  carpet,  and  polishing  the  shovel  and 
tongs ; and  I must  confess,  considering  her  means, 
she  put  things  in  tolerable  order.  An  old  half- 
blind negro  woman,  by  the  name  of  Joice,  who 
had  formerly  waited  on  parties,  but  was  now 
nearly  superannuated,  was  to  come  and  assist  us; 
it  having  been  stipulated  that  she  should  have 
the  fragments  of  the  feast  for  her  pay.  The 
evening  came;  the  company  assembled ; our  old 
barn-lantern,  with  one  broken  and  three  cracked 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


113 


glasses,  was  hung  up  in  the  entry  for  an  intro- 
ductory light ; our  turkey,  our  chickens,  our  jel- 
lies, and  our  cards  were  prepared.  Joice  was 
busy,  my  mother  was  directing,  and  all  were 
happy.  But  let  no  man  hereafter  pronounce  an 
evening  blessed,  before  the  hour  of  supper  has 
closed.  Joice  had  complained  already  that  she 
wanted  things  to  do  with;  and  on  the  narrow 
table  in  the  kitchen,  she  had  overturned  a lamp, 
and  oiled  the  bottom  of  the  great  dish,  on  which 
the  turkey  was  to  be  presented  on  the  supper 
table.  It  became  slippery,  her  fingers  were  slip- 
pery, and  she  was  half  blind.  As  she  came  wad- 
dling into  the  supper  room,  with  the  treasures  of 
her  cookery,  she  stumbled,  struck  the  poor  spliced 
legs  of  our  dining  table,  my  patchwork  gave  way, 
down  went  the  table,  dishes  and  sauces,  on  the 
ladies’  gowns,  down  went  poor  Joice  in  the  midst 
of  them;  my  fish-line  was  revealed,  the  tom 
place  in  the  table-cloth  was  seen,  torn  still  more 
disastrously ; my  father  looked  aghast,  my  mother 
was  in  tears,  and  the  whole  company  were  in 
confusion.  My  father,  however,  tried  to  jump 
out  of  his  condition,  like  a cat  out  of  a corner. 
“ Plague  take  Mr.  Hardwood,  our  cabinet-maker; 
I had  just  ordered  a new  table,  but  he  never 
sends  home  his  work  in  time  ! ” In  saying  this,  I 
can  bear  witness  that  my  honored  father  did  not 
tell  a lie — he  told  just  half  the  truth.  He  had 
ordered  a new  table,  and  Mr.  Hardwood  had  not 
sent  it  to  us  in  time ; but  then  he  distinctly  told 
10* 


114 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


my  father  the  reason;  and  that  was,  he  should 
not  send  it,  until  he  settled  off  the  old  score. 

uO  poverty,  poverty!”  says  Cervantes;  “a 
man  must  have  a great  share  of  the  grace  of  God, 
who  can  bring  himself  to  be  contented  with  thee. 
Why  dost  thou  choose  to  pinch  gentlemen?” 
Yes,  I must  allow,  poverty  is  bad  enough;  but 
not  so  terrible  when  it  comes  alone.  It  may  then 
bring  peace  and  resignation  by  its  side,  and  even 
lead  contentment  and  virtue  in  its  train.  In  such 
cases,  it  is  probation,  instruction,  wisdom,  im- 
provement, religion.  The  great  and  good,  in  all 
ages,  have  submitted  to  it ; and  suffering  heroes 
have  sometimes  made  it  their  boast  and  glory. 
But  Heaven  defend  me,  and  the  souls  of  all  my 
tribe,  from  the  mingled  horrors  of  pride  and  pov- 
erty, when  they  come  upon  us  together  ! In  the 
language  of  our  own  Wigglesworth,  I may  say — 


It  is  a main  great  ocean 
Withouten  bank  or  bound  ; 
A deep  abyss,  wherein  there  is 
No  bottom  to  be  found. 


“ BLOW,  GENTLE  GALE.” 


By  Park  Benjamin. 


Blow,  gentle  gale  ! my  pinnace  sleeps 
Upon  the  sea ; 

In  yonder  tower  my  Ella  keeps 
Her  watch  for  me. 

Ah,  lift  my  snow-white  sail, 

Thou  gentle  gale  ! 

Breeze,  pleasant  breeze  ! where  dallyest  thou  ? 
On  beds  of  flowers  ? 

Come,  with  their  odors  round  thee  now, 

Come  from  their  bowers  ! 

And  fill  my  drooping  sail, 

Thou  gentle  gale  ! 

Come,  lovely  wind  ! — a fairer  rose 
Awaits  thy  kiss  ; 

On  Ella’s  cheek  thou  mayst  repose, 

And  faint  with  bliss, 

So  thou  wilt  stir  my  sail, 

Thou  gentle  gale ! 


116 


TIIE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Ah,  joy  ! the  waters,  crimson-dyed, 

F ar,  far  away, 

Touched  by  thy  unseen  pinions,  glide 
In  merry  play  ; 

Fill,  fill  my  shivering  sail, 

Thou  gentle  gale ! 

Thanks,  gentle  gale  ! my  pinnace  rocks — 
My  streamers  fly — 

The  mists  float  on,  like  soaring  flocks, 
Along  the  sky  ,* 

Press,  press  my  willing  sail, 

Thou  gentle  gale  ! 

Blow  on,  sweet  breeze  ! — a moment  more — 
And  I shall  see 

Her  signal,  waving  from  the  shore, 

To  welcome  me ; 

Rend,  if  thou  wilt,  my  sail, 

Thou  gentle  gale  ! 


OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS. 


By  O.  W.  Holmes. 


Let  greener  lands,  and  bluer  skies, 

If  such  the  wide  earth  shows, 

With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes, 
Match  us  the  star  and  rose  ; 

The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian’s  veil, 

Or  wave  Circassia’s  curls, 

Waft  to  their  shores  the  Sultan’s  sail ; — 
Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls  ? 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 
Love’s  thousand  chords  so  well ; 

The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell, 

And  England’s  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  dame, 
Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls- — 

Ye  who  have  seen  them — can  they  shame 
Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls  ? 

And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 
Its  children  loftier  born, — 

Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel’s  flaunt, 

Beside  the  golden  corn  ? 


118 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


They  ask  not  for  the  courtly  toil 
Of  jewelled  knights  and  earls — 

The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil— 

Our  free-born  Yankee  girls. 

By  every  hill,  whose  stately  pines 
Wave  their  dark  arms  above 
The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines, 
To  warm  the  wilds  with  love ; 

From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore, 
Where  farthest  sail  unfurls, 

That  stars  and  stripes  are  floating  o’er— 
God  bless  our  Yankee  girls  l 


THE  LITTLE  BEACH  BIRD. 


By  Richard  H.  Dana. 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 

Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  ? 

Why  with  that  boding  cry 
Along  the  waves  dost  fly  ? 

Oh  ! rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 

As  driven  by  a beating  storm  at  sea ; 

Thy  cry  is  weak  and.  scared, 

As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 

The  doom  of  us.  Thy  wail — 

What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  callest  along  the  sand,  and  hauntest  the  surg 
Eestless  and  sad  ; as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 

One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 

The  Mystery — the  Word. 


120 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 

Old  Ocean,  art ! A requiem  o’er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells, 

A tale  of  mourning  tells — 

Tells  of  man’s  wo  and  fall, 

His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 

Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 

For  gladness  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


By  Jared  Sparks. 


In  many  respects  the  history  of  North  America 
differs  from  that  of  every  other  country,  and  in 
this  difference  it  possesses  an  interest  peculiar  to 
itself,  especially  for  those,  whose  lot  has  been 
cast  here,  and  who  look  back  with  a generous 
pride  to  the  deeds  of  ancestors,  by  whom  a na- 
tion’s existence  has  been  created,  and  a nation’s 
glory  adorned.  We  shall  speak  of  this  history, 
as  divided  into  two  periods,  the  Colonial,  and  the 
Revolutionary. 

When  we  talk  of  the  history  of  our  country, 
we  are  not  to  be  understood  as  alluding  to  any 
particular  book,  or  to  the  labors  of  any  man,  or 
number  of  men,  in  treating  this  subject.  If  we 
have  a few  compilations  of  merit,  embracing 
detached  portions  and  limited  periods,  there  is 
yet  wanting  a work,  the  writer  of  which  shall 
undertake  the  task  of  plodding  his  way  through 
all  the  materials,  printed  and  in  manuscript,  and 
digesting  them  into  a united,  continuous,  lucid, 
and  philosophical  whole,  bearing  the  shape,  and 
containing  the  substance  of  genuine  history.  No 
11 


122 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


tempting  encouragement,  it  is  true,  has  been  held 
out  to  such  an  enterprise.  The  absorbing  present, 
in  the  midst  of  our  stirring  politics,  and  jarring 
party  excitements,  and  bustling  activity,  has 
almost  obliterated  the  past,  or  at  least  has  left 
little  leisure  for  pursuing  the  footsteps  of  the  pil- 
grims, and  the  devious  fortunes  of  our  ancestors. 
The  public  taste  has  run  in  other  directions,  and 
no  man  of  genius  and  industry  has  been  found  so 
courageous  in  his  resolves,  or  prodigal  of  his 
labor,  as  to  waste  his  life  in  digging  into  mines 
for  treasures,  which  would  cost  him  much,  and 
avail  him  little.  But  symptoms  of  a change  are 
beginning  to  appear,  which  it  may  be  hoped  will 
ere  long  be  realized. 

And  when  the  time  shall  come  for  illustrating 
this  subject,  it  will  be  discovered,  that  there  are 
rich  stores  of  knowledge  among  the  hidden  and 
forgotten  records  of  our  colonial  history,  that  the 
men  of  those  days  thought,  and  acted,  and  suf- 
fered with  a wisdom,  a fortitude,  and  an  endur- 
ance, which  would  add  lustre  to  any  age  ; and 
that  they  have  transmitted  an  inheritance  as 
honorable  in  the  mode  of  its  accpiisition,  as  it  is 
dear  to  its  present  possessors.  Notwithstanding 
the  comparatively  disconnected  incidents  in  the 
history  of  this  period,  and  the  separate  communi- 
ties and  governments  to  which  it  extends,  it  has 
nevertheless  a unity  and  a consistency  of  parts, 
as  well  as  copiousness  of  events,  which  make  it 
a theme  for  the  most  gifted  historian,  and  a study 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


123 


for  every  one,  who  would  enlarge  his  knowledge 
and  profit  by  high  example. 

Unlike  any  other  people,  who  have  attained 
the  rank  of  a nation,  we  may  here  trace  our 
country’s  growth  to  the  very  elements  of  its 
origin,  and  consult  the  testimonies  of  reality, 
instead  of  the  blind  oracles  of  fable,  and  the 
legends  of  a dubious  tradition..  Besides  a love  of 
adventure,  and  an  enthusiasm,  that  surmounted 
every  difficulty,  the  character  of  its  founders  was 
marked  by  a hardy  enterprise  and  sturdiness  of 
purpose,  which  carried  them  onward  through 
perils  and  sufferings,  that  would  have  appalled 
weaker  minds  and  less  resolute  hearts.  This  is 
the  first  great  feature  of  resemblance  in  all  the 
early  settlers,  whether  they  came  to  the  north  or  to 
the  south,  and  it  merits  notice  from  the  influence 
it  could  not  fail  to  exercise  on  their  future  acts 
and  character,  both  domestic  and  political.  The 
timid,  the  wavering,  the  feeble-minded,  the  sons 
of  indolence  and  ease,  were  not  among  those, 
who  left  the  comforts  of  home,  braved  the  tem- 
pests of  the  ocean,  and  sought  danger  on  the 
shores  of  an  unknown  and  inhospitable  world. 
Incited  by  various  motives  they  might  have  been  ; 
by  a fondness  for  adventure,  curiosity,  gain,  or  a 
dread  of  oppression  ; yet  none  but  the  bold,  ener- 
getic, determined,  persevering,  would  yield  to 
these  motives  or  any  other. 

Akin  to  these  characteristics,  and  indeed  a con- 
comitant with  them,  was  a spirit  of  freedom,  and 


124 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


a restlessness  under  constraint.  The  New  Eng- 
land settlers,  we  know,  came  away  on  this 
ground  alone,  goaded  to  a sense  of  their  invaded 
rights  by  the  thorns  of  religious  intolerance.  But 
whatever  motives  may  have  operated,  the  promi- 
nent fact  remains  the  same,  and  in  this  we  may 
see  throughout  the  colonies  a uniform  basis  of 
that  vigor  of  character,  and  indomitable  love  of 
liberty,  which  appeared  ever  afterwards,  in  one 
guise  or  another,  whenever  occasions  called  them 
out. 

Hence  it  was,  also,  that  the  different  colonies, 
although  under  dissimilar  modes  of  government, 
some  more  and  some  less  dependent  on  the  crown, 
preserved  a close  resemblance  in  the  spirit  of 
their  internal  regulations,  that  spirit,  or  those 
principles,  which  entered  deeply  into  the  opinions 
of  the  people,  and  upon  which  their  habits  were 
formed. 

Beginning  everywhere  in  small  bodies,  elections 
implied  almost  a universal  suffrage,  and  every 
individual  became  acquainted  with  his  rights, 
and  accustomed  to  use  the  power  they  gave  him. 
Increase  of  numbers  made  no  change  in  this 
respect.  Charters  were  given  and  taken  away, 
laws  were  annulled,  and  the  King’s  judges  de- 
cided against  the  colonial  pretensions.  The  lib- 
erties of  the  mass  were  thus  abridged,  and  the 
powers  of  legislation  curtailed,  but  the  people 
still  went  on,  voting  for  their  representatives  and 
their  municipal  officers,  and  practising  all  the 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


125 


elementary  acts  of  independent  government ; and 
the  legislatures  had  new  opportunities  of  asserting 
their  rights  before  the  world,  studying  them  more 
deeply,  watching  over  them  more  cautiously,  and 
in  this  way  gaining  strength  to  their  cause, 
through  the  agency  of  the  very  means  that  were 
employed  to  depress  or  destroy  it.  The  primary 
elections  were  never  reached  by  these  oppressive 
measures  of  the  supreme  power,  and,  as  they 
were  founded  on  principles  of  close  analogy  in  all 
the  colonies,  conformable  to  the  circumstances  of 
their  origin,  they  were  not  only  the  guardian  of 
the  liberties  of  each,  from  its  first  foundation, 
but  they  became  at  last  the  cementing  force, 
which  bound  them  together,  when  a great  and 
united  effort  was  necessary. 

Another  element  of  unity  in  the  colonial  period 
was  the  fact  of  the  colonists  springing  from  the 
same  stock ; for  although  Holland,  Germany  and 
Sweden  contributed  a few  settlers,  yet  the  mass 
was  of  English  origin,  inheriting  the  free  spirit 
that  had  been  at  work  from  the  era  of  Runny 
Mead  downwards,  in  building  up  the  best  parts 
of  the  British  Constitution,  and  framing  laws  to 
protect  them.  The  Sidneys,  and  Miltons,  and 
Lockes  of  England  were  teachers  in  America  as 
well  as  in  their  native  land,  and  more  effectual, 
because  their  instructions  fell  in  a readier  soil, 
and  sprang  up  with  a livelier  and  bolder  growth. 
The  books  of  England  were  the  fountains  of 
knowledge  in  America,  from  which  all  parts  drew 
11* 


126 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


equally,  imbibing  common  habitudes  of  thought 
and  opinion,  and  an  intellectual  uniformity.  Our 
fathers  soon  saw,  that  the  basis  of  virtue,  the 
security  of  civil  order  and  freedom,  must  be  laid 
in  the  intelligence  of  the  people.  Schools  were 
established  and  means  provided,  not  everywhere 
with  a zeal  so  ardent,  and  a forethought  so  judi- 
cious, as  among  the  descendants  of  the  pilgrims, 
but  yet  in  all  places  according  to  their  situation, 
and  the  tendency  of  controlling  causes. 

The  colonial  wars  form  another  combining 
principle  in  the  unity  of  that  period,  and  furnish 
materials  for  vivid  delineations  of  character  and 
animated  narrative.  The  English  and  French 
colonies  were  always  doomed  to  espouse  the  quar- 
rels and  participate  the  broils  of  their  rival  heads 
in  Europe,  who  continued  to  nourish  a root  of 
bitterness,  that  left  but  few  intervals  of  peace, 
and  fewer  still  of  harmonious  feeling.  When  the 
fire  of  discord  was  kindled  into  open  hostility, 
its  flame  soon  reached  America,  and  roused  all 
hearts  to  the  conflict.  Louisburg  and  Nova 
Scotia,  Lake  George  and  Braddock’s  field,  Os- 
wego and  Niagara,  have  witnessed  the  bravery 
of  our  ancestors,  and  the  blood  they  expended, 
fighting  the  battles  as  well  of  transatlantic  ambi- 
tion as  of  self-defence. 

But  there  was  a great  moral  cause  at  work  in 
this  train  of  events.  By  these  trials,  costly  and 
severe  as  they  were,  the  colonists  were  learning 
the  extent  of  their  physical  resources,  acting  as 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


127 


one  people,  gaining  the  experience  and  nerving 
the  sinews,  that  were  at  a future  day  to  serve 
them  in  a mightier  contest.  Much  blood  was 
shed,  but  it  was  the  price  of  future  glory  to  their 
country ; many  a fair  flower  was  cut  off  in  the 
freshness  of  its  bloom,  many  a sturdy  oak  was 
felled  in  the  majesty  of  its  strength,  yet  posterity 
will  not  forget  the  maxim  of  the  Roman  law,  that 
they,  who  fall  for  their  country,  live  in  the  im- 
mortality of  their  fame. 

Next  come  the  Indian  wars,  which  commenced 
with  the  first  landing  of  the  pilgrim  wanderers, 
and  ceased  not  till  the  proud  sons  of  the  forest  W 
had  melted  away  like  an  evening  cloud,  or  dis- 
appeared. in  the  remote  solitudes  of  their  own 
wilderness.  The  wars  of  the  Indians,  their  char- 
acter and  manners,  their  social  and  political  con- 
dition, are  original,  having  no  prototype  in  any 
former  time  or  race  of  men.  They  mingle  in  all 
the  incidents  of  our  colonial  history,  and  stamp 
upon  it  an  impression  novel  and  peculiar. 

With  a strength  of  character  and  a reach  of 
intellect,  unknown  in  any  other  race  of  absolute 
savages,  the  Indian  united  many  traits,  some  of 
them  honorable  and  some  degrading  to  humanity, 
which  made  him  formidable  in  his  enmity,  faith- 
less in  his  friendship,  and  at  all  times  a danger- 
ous neighbor : cruel,  implacable,  treacherous,  yet 
not  without  a few  of  the  better  qualities  of  the 
heart  and  the  head ; a being  of  contrasts,  violent 
in  his  passions,  hasty  in  his  anger,  fixed  in  his 


128 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


revenge,  yet  cool  in  counsel,  seldom  betraying  his 
plighted  honor,  hospitable,  sometimes  generous. 
A few  names  have  stood  out  among  them,  which, 
with  the  culture  of  civilization,  might  have  been 
shining  stars  on  the  lists  of  recorded  fame. 
Philip,  Pondiac,  Sassacus,  if  the  genius  of  an- 
other Homer  were  to  embalm  their  memory, 
might  rival  the  Hectors  and  Agamemnons  of 
heroic  renown,  scarcely  less  savage,  not  less  saga- 
cious or  brave. 

Indian  eloquence,  if  it  did  not  flow  with  the 
richness  of  Nestor’s  wisdom,  or  bum  with  Achil- 
% les’  fire,  spoke  in  the  deep  strong  tones  of  nature, 
and  resounded  from  the  chords  of  truth.  The 
answer  of  the  Iroquois  chief  to  the  French,  who 
wished  to  purchase  his  lands,  and  push  him  far- 
ther into  the  wilderness,  Voltaire  has  pronounced 
superior  to  any  sayings  of  the  great  men  com- 
memorated by  Plutarch.  u We  were  bom  on  this 
spot ; our  fathers  are  buried  here.  Shall  we  say 
to  the  bones  of  our  fathers,  arise,  and  go  with  us 
into  a strange  land  ? 77 

But  more  has  been  said  of  their  figurative  lan- 
guage, than  seems  to  be  justified  by  modern  expe- 
rience. Writers  of  fiction  have  distorted  the 
Indian  character,  and  given  us  anything  but 
originals.  Their  fancy  has  produced  sentimental 
Indians,  a kind  of  beings  that  never  existed  in 
reality;  and  Indians  clothing  their  ideas  in  the 
gorgeous  imagery  of  external  nature,  which  they 
had  neither  the  refinement  to  conceive,  nor  words 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


129 


to  express.  In  truth,  when  we  have  lighted  the 
pipe  of  concord,  kindled  or  extinguished  a coun- 
cil fire,  buried  the  bloody  hatchet,  sat  down  under 
the  tree  of  peace  with  its  spreading  branches, 
and  brightened  the  chain  of  friendship,  we  have 
nearly  exhausted  their  flowers  of  rhetoric.  But 
the  imagery  prompted  by  internal  emotion,  and 
not  by  the  visible  world,  the  eloquence  of  con- 
densed thought  and  pointed  expression,  the  elo- 
quence of  a diction  extremely  limited  in  its  forms, 
but  nervous  and  direct,  the  eloquence  of  truth 
unadorned  and  of  justice  undisguised,  these  are 
often  found  in  Indian  speeches,  and  constitute 
their  chief  characteristic. 

It  should,  moreover,  be  said  for  the  Indians, 
that,  like  the  Carthaginians,  their  history  has 
been  written  by  their  enemies.  The  tales  of  their 
wrongs  and  their  achievements  may  have  been 
told  by  the  warrior-chiefs  to  stimulate  the  cour- 
age, and  perpetuate  the  revenge  of  their  children, 
but  they  were  traces  in  the  sand ; they  perished 
in  a day,  and  their  memory  is  gone. 

Such  are  the  outlines  of  our  colonial  history, 
which  constitute  its  unity,  and  make  it  a topic* 
worthy  to  be  illustrated  by  the  labors  of  industry 
and  talent.  The  details,  if  less  imposing,^  are 
copious  and  varied.  The  progress  of  society 
developing  itself  in  new  modes,  at  first  in  isolated 
communities  scattered  along  the  sea-coast,  and 
then  gradually  approximating  each  other,  extend- 
ing to  the  interior,  subduing  the  forests  with  a 


130 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


magic  almost  rivalling  the  lyre  of  Orpheus,  and 
encountering  everywhere  the  ferocity  of  uncivil- 
ized man ; the  plans  of  social  government  neces- 
sarily suggested  by  such  a state  of  things,  and 
their  operations  in  the  advancing  stages  of  im- 
provement and  change;  the  fantastic  codes  of 
laws,  and  corresponding  habitudes,  that  sprang 
from  the  reveries  of  our  Puritan  fathers;  the 
admirable  systems  which  followed  them,  con- 
ceived by  men  tutored  only  in  the  school  of  free- 
dom and  necessity,  exceeding  in  political  wisdom 
^and  security  of  rights  the  boasted  schemes  of 
•ancient  lawgivers;  the  wild  and  disorganizing 
frenzies  of  religious  fanaticism ; the  misguided 
severities  of  religious  intolerance ; the  strange 
aberration^  of  the  human  mind,  and  abuses  of 
power,  in  abettings  the  criminal  folly  of  witch- 
craft; the  struggles,.  that  were  ever  going  on, 
between  the  Governors  and  the  Assemblies,  the 
former  urging  the  demands^of,.  prerogative,  the 
latter  maintaining  the  claims  of  liberty;  the 
sources  of  growing  nvealth : the  influence  of 

knowledge  widely  diffused,  of  religion  unshackled 
by  .the  trammels  of  power  ; the  manners  and 
ha^t^f-  the  people  at  ^ferent  times,  and  in  dif- 
fered places,  taking  their  hue  from  such  a com- 
bination of  causes;  these,  and  a thousand  other 
;foatur?^^^)ly  interesting  and  full  of  variety, 
belong  to  the^ortfAiture^f  colo.niaKhistory,wgiv- 
ing  symmetry  to  its  pans,'  and  completeness  to 
the  whole, 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


131 


The  Revolutionary  period,  like  the  Colonial, 
has  hitherto  been  but  imperfectly  elucidated,  and 
perhaps  for  the  same  reason.  The  voluminous 
materials,  printed  and  unprinted,  widely  scattered 
in  this  country  and  in  Europe,  some  obvious  and 
well  known,  many  unexplored,  have  been  formi- 
dable obstacles  to  the  execution  of  such  an  under- 
taking. No  Rymers  have  yet  appeared  among 
us,  who  were  willing  to  spend  a life  in  gathering 
up  and  embodying  these  memorials ; and,  till 
public  encouragement  shall  prompt  and  aid  such 
a design,  till  the  national  representatives  shall 
have  leisure  to  pause  for  a moment  from  theifl 
weighty  cares  in  adjusting  the  wheels  of  state, 
and  emulate  the  munificent  patriotism  of  other 
governments,  by  adopting  measures  to  collect  and 
preserve  the  perishing  records  of  the  wisdom  and. 
valor  of  their  fathers ; till  this  shall  be  done,  the 
historian  of  the  revolution  must  labor  under 
disadvantages,  which  his  zeal  will  hardly  stimu- 
late him  to  encounter,  nor  his  genius  enable  him 
to  surmount. 

The  subject  itself  is  one  of  the  best,  that  ever 
employed  the  pen  of  a writer,  whether  considered 
in  the  object  at  stake,  the  series  of  acts  by  which  it 
was  accomplished,  or  its  consequences.  It  prop- 
erly includes  a cortipass  of  twenty  years,  extend- 
ing from  the  close  of  the  French  war  in  America 
to  the  general  peace  at  Paris.  The  best  history 
in  existence,  though  left  unfinished,  that  of  the 
Peloponnesian  war,  by  Thucydides,  embraces 


132 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


exactly  the  same  space  of  time,  and  is  not  dis- 
similar in  the  details  of  its  events.  The  revolu- 
tionary period,  thus  defined,  is  rounded  with  epic 
exactness,  having  a beginning,  a middle,  and  an 
end ; a time  for  causes  to  operate,  for  the  stir  of 
action,  and  for  the  final  results. 

The  machinery  in  motion  is  on  the  broadest 
scale  of  grandeur.  We  see  the  new  world,  young 
in  age,  but  resolute  in  youth,  lifting  up  the  arm 
of  defiance  against  the  haughtiest  power  of  the 
old;  fleets  and  armies,  on  one  side,  crossing  the 
ocean  in  daring  attitude  and  confiding  strength  ; 
|^n  the  other,  men  rallying  round  the  banner  of 
union,  and  fighting  on  their  natal  soil  for  freedom, 
rights,  existence;  the  long  struggle  and  successful 
issue ; hope  confirmed,  justice  triumphant.  The 
passions  are  likewise  here  at  work,  in  all  the 
changing  scenes  of  politics  and  war,  in  the  delib- 
erations of  the  senate,  the  popular  mind,  and  the 
martial  excitements  of  the  field.  We  have  elo- 
quence and  deep  thought  in  counsel,  alertness  and 
bravery  in  action,  self-sacrifice,  fortitude,  and 
patient  suffering  of  hardship  through  toil  and 
danger  to  the  last.  If  we  search  for  the  habili- 
ments of  dignity  with  which  to  clothe  a historical 
subject,  or  the  looser  drapery  of  ornament  with 
which  to  embellish  a narrative,  where  shall  we 
find  them  thronging  more  thickly,  or  in  happier 
contrasts,  than  during  this  period  ? 

The  causes  of  the  revolution,  so  fertile  a theme 
of  speculation,  are  less  definite  than  have  been 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


133 


imagined.  The  whole  series  of  colonial  events 
was  a continued  and  accumulating  cause.  The 
spirit  was  kindled  in  England ; it  went  with  Rob- 
inson’s congregation  to  Holland  ; it  landed  with 
them  at  Plymouth ; it  was  the  basis  of  the  first 
constitution  of  these  sage  and  self-taught  legisla- 
tors ; it  never  left  them  nor  their  descendants.  It 
extended  to  the  other  colonies,  where  it  met  with 
a kindred  impulse,  was  nourished  in  every  breast, 
and  became  rooted  in  the  feelings  of  the  whole 
people. 

The  revolution  was  a change  of  forms,  but  not 
of  substance ; the  breaking  of  a tie,  but  not  the* 
creation  of  a principle;  the  establishment  of  an 
independent  nation,  but  not  the  origin  of  its 
intrinsic  political  capacities.  The  foundations  of 
society,  although  unsettled  for  the  moment,  were 
not  essentially  disturbed  ; its  pillars  were  shaken, 
but  never  overthrown.  The  convulsions  of  war 
subsided,  and  the  people  found  themselves,  in 
their  local  relations  and  customs,  their  immediate 
privileges  and  enjoyments,  just  where  they  had 
been  at  the  beginning.  The  new  forms  trans- 
ferred the  supreme  authority  from  the  King  and 
Parliament  of  Great  Britain  to  the  hands  of  the 
people.  This  was  a gain,  but  not  a renovation  ; 
a security  against  future  encroachments,  but  not 
an  exemption  from  any  old  duty,  nor  an  imposi- 
tion of  any  new  one,  farther  than  that  of  being  at 
the  trouble  to  govern  themselves. 

12 


134 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Hence  the  latent  cause  of  what  has  been  called 
a revolution  was  the  fact,  that  the  political  spirit 
and  habits  in  America  had  waxed  into  a shape 
so  different  from  those  in  England,  that  it  was  no 
longer  convenient  to  regulate  them  by  the  same 
forms.  In  other  words,  the  people  had  grown  to 
be  kings,  and  chose  to  exercise  their  sovereign 
prerogatives  in  their  own  way.  Time  alone 
would  have  effected  the  end,  probably  without  so 
violent  an  explosion,  had  it  not  been  hastened  by 
particular  events,  which  may  be  denominated  the 
proximate  causes. 

These  took  their  rise  at  the  close  of  the  French 
war,  twelve  years  before  the  actual  contest  began. 
Relieved  from  future  apprehensions  of  the  French 
power  on  the  frontiers,  the  colonists  now  had 
leisure  to  think  of  themselves,  of  their  political 
affairs,  their  numbers,  their  united  strength.  At 
this  juncture,  the  most  inauspicious  possible  for 
the  object  in  view,  the  precious  device  of  taxing 
the  colonies  was  resorted  to  by  the  British  minis- 
try, which,  indeed,  had  been  for  some  time  a 
secret  scheme  in  the  cabinet,  and  had  been  recom- 
mended by  the  same  sagacious  governor  of  Vir- 
ginia, who  found  the  people  in  such  a republican 
way  of  acting,  that  he  could  not  manage  them  to 
his  purpose. 

The  fruit  of  this  policy  was  the  Stamp  Act, 
which  has  been  considered  a primary  cause ; and 
it  was  so,  in  the  same  sense  that  a torch  is  the 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


135 


cause  of  a conflagration,  kindling  the  flame,  but 
not  creating  the  combustible  materials.  Effects 
then  became  causes,  and  the  triumphant  opposi- 
tion to  this  tax  was  the  cause  of  its  being  renewed 
on  tea  and  other  articles,  not  so  much,  it  was 
avowed,  for  the  amount  of  revenue  it  would 
yield,  as  to  vindicate  the  principle,  that  Parlia- 
ment had  a right  to  tax  the  colonies.  The  people 
resisted  the  act,  and  destroyed  the  tea,  to  show 
that  they  likewise  had  a principle,  for  which  they 
felt  an  equal  concern. 

By  these  experiments  on  their  patience,  and 
these  struggles  to  oppose  them,  their  confidence 
was  increased,  as  the  tree  gains  strength  at  its 
root,  by  the  repeated  blasts  of  the  tempests 
against  its  branches.  From  this  time  a mixture 
of  causes  was  at  work ; the  pride  of  power,  the 
disgrace  of  defeat,  the  arrogance  of  office,  on  the 
one  hand  ; a sense  of  wrong,  indignant  feeling, 
and  an  enthusiasm  for  liberty  on  the  other. 
These  were  secondary,  having  slight  connection 
with  the  first  springs  of  the  revolution,  or  the  per- 
vading force  by  which  it  was  kept  up,  although 
important  filaments  in  the  network  of  history. 

The  acts  of  the  revolution  derive  dignity  and 
interest  from  the  character  of  the  actors,  and  the 
nature  and  magnitude  of  the  events.  It  has  been 
remarked,  that  in  all  great  political  revolutions, 
men  have  arisen,  possessed  of  extraordinary  en- 
dowments, adequate  to  the  exigency  of  the  time. 
It  is  true  enough,  that  such  revolutions,  or  any 


136 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


remarkable  and  continued  exertions  of  human 
power,  must  be  brought  to  pass  by  corresponding 
qualities  in  the  agents  ; but  whether  the  occasion 
makes  the  men,  or  men  the  occasion,  may  not 
always  be  ascertained  with  exactness.  In  either 
case,  however,  no  period  has  been  adorned  with 
examples  more  illustrious,  or  more  perfectly 
adapted  to  the  high  destiny  awaiting  them,  than 
that  of  the  American  Revolution. 

Statesmen  were  at  hand,  who,  if  not  skilled  in 
the  art  of  governing  empires,  were  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  principles  of  just  government, 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  history  of  former 
ages,  and,  above  all,  with  the  condition,  senti- 
ments, feelings  of  their  countrymen.  If  there 
were  no  Richelieus  nor  Mazarines,  no  Cecils  nor 
Chathams,  in  America,  there  were  men,  who, 
like  Themistocles,  knew  how  to  raise  a small 
state  to  glory  and  greatness. 

The  eloquence  and  the  internal  counsels  of  the 
Old  Congress  were  never  recorded;  we  know 
them  only  in  their  results ; but  that  assembly, 
with  no  other  power  than  that  conferred  by  the 
suffrage  of  the  people,  with  no  other  influence 
than  that  of  their  public  virtue  and  talents,  and 
without  precedent  to  guide  their  deliberations, 
unsupported  even  by  the  arm  of  law  or  of  ancient 
usages,  that  assembly  levied  troops,  imposed 
taxes,  and  for  years  not  only  retained  the  confi- 
dence and  upheld  the  civil  existence  of  a dis- 
tracted country,  but  carried  through  a perilous 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


137 


war  under  its  most  aggravating  burdens  of  sacri- 
fice and  suffering.  Can  we  imagine  a situation, 
in  which  were  required  higher  moral  courage, 
more  intelligence  and  talent,  a deeper  insight  into 
human  nature  and  the  principles  of  social  and 
political  organizations,  or,  indeed,  any  of  those 
qualities,  which  constitute  greatness  of  character 
in  a statesman  ? See,  likewise,  that  work  of 
wonder,  the  Confederation,  a union  of  indepen- 
dent states,  constructed  in  the  very  heart  of  a 
desolating  war,  but  with  a beauty  and  strength, 
imperfect  as  it  was,  of  which  the  ancient  leagues 
of  the  Amphictyons,  the  Achseans,  the  Lycians, 
and  the  modern  confederacies  of  Germany,  Hol- 
land, Switzerland,  afford  neither  exemplar  not 
parallel. 

In  their  foreign  affairs  these  same  statesmen 
showed  no  less  sagacity  and  skill,  taking  their 
stand  boldly  in  the  rank  of  nations,  maintaining 
it  there,  competing  with  the  tactics  of  practised 
diplomacy,  and  extorting  from  the  powers  of  the 
old  world  not  only  the  homage  of  respect,  but 
the  proffers  of  friendship. 

The  'military  events  of  the  revolution,  which 
necessarily  occupy  so  much  of  its  history,  are  not 
less  honorable  to  the  actors,  nor  less  fruitful  in 
the  evidences  they  afford  of  large  design  and 
ability  of  character.  But  these  we  need  not 
recount.  They  live  in  the  memory  of  all ; we 
have  heard  them  from  the  lips  of  those  who  saw 
and  suffered ; they  are  inscribed  on  imperishable 
12* 


138 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


monuments ; the  very  hills  and  plains  around  us 
tell  of  achievements,  which  can  never  die ; and 
the  day  will  come,  when  the  traveller,  who  has 
gazed  and  pondered  at  Marathon  and  Waterloo, 
will  linger  on  the  mount  where  Prescott  fought 
and  Warren  fell,  and  say — Here  is  the  field 
where  man  has  struggled  in  his  most  daring  con- 
flict ; here  is  the  field  where  liberty  poured  out 
her  noblest  blood,  and  won  her  brightest  and  most 
enduring  laurels. 

Happy  was  it  for  America,  happy  for  the 
world,  that  a great  name,  a guardian  genius, 
presided  over  her  destinies  in  war,  combining 
more  than  the  virtues  of  the  Roman  Fabius  and 
the  Theban  Epaminondas,  and  compared  with 
whom,  the  conquerors  of  the  world,  the  Alexan- 
ders and  Caesars,  are  but  pageants  crimsoned 
with  blood  and  decked  with  the  trophies  of 
slaughter,  objects  equally  of  the  wonder  and  the 
execration  of  mankind.  The  hero  of  America 
was  the  conqueror  only  of  his  country’s  foes,  and 
the  hearts  of  his  countrymen.  To  the  one  he 
was  a terror,  and  in  the  other  he  gained  an 
ascendency,  supreme,  unrivalled,  the  tribute  of 
admiring  gratitude,  the  reward  of  a nation’s  love. 

The  deep  interest  excited  by  the  events  of  war 
does  not  derive  its  intenseness  from  the  numbers 
engaged.  The  army  of  Xerxes  astounds  11s  with 
its  embodied  millions,  but  it  is  only  with  Leoni- 
das, and  his  three  hundred  Spartans,  that  the 
heart  mingles  its  sympathies,  and  is  agitated  with 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


139 


thrilling  hopes  and  fears.  Kings  pursue  the  game 
of  war,  as  men  play  at  chess.  They  martial 
their  hosts,  battles  are  fought,  and  there  are  con- 
quest and  defeat.  We  may  follow  their  fortunes 
with  a languid  curiosity,  but  with  no  intense 
feeling.  The  reason  is  obvious.  We  can  be 
wrought  upon  only  by  vivid  impressions,  and 
what  in  some  way  touches  the  springs  of  the 
human  affections. 

The  American  armies,  compared  with  the  em- 
battled legions  of  the  old  world,  were  small  in 
numbers,  but  the  soul  of  a whole  people  centred 
in  the  bosom  of  these  more  than  Spartan  bands, 
and  vibrated  quickly  and  keenly  with  every  inci- 
dent that  befell  them,  whether  in  their  feats  of 
valor,  or  the  acuteness  of  their  sufferings.  The 
country  itself  was  one  wide  battle-field,  in  which 
not  merely  the  life-blood,  but  the  dearest  interests, 
the  sustaining  hopes,  of  every  individual,  were 
at  stake.  It  was  not  a war  of  pride  and  ambition 
between  monarchs,  in  which  an  island  or  a prov- 
ince might  be  the  award  of  success;  it  was  a 
contest  for  personal  liberty  and  civil  rights,  com- 
ing down  in  its  principles  to  the  very  sanctuary 
of  home  and  the  fireside,  and  determining  for 
every  man  the  measure  of  responsibility  he  should 
hold  over  his  own  condition,  possessions,  and 
happiness.  The  spectacle  was  grand  and  new, 
and  may  well  be  cited  as  the  most  glowing  page 
in  the  annals  of  progressive  man. 


140 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


The  instructive  lesson  of  history,  teaching  by 
example,  can  nowhere  be  studied  with  more 
profit,  or  with  a better  promise,  than  in  this  revo- 
lutionary period  of  America ; and  especially  by 
us,  who  sit  under  the  tree  our  fathers  have 
planted,  enjoy  its  shade,  and  are  nourished  by  its 
fruits.  But  little  is  our  merit,  or  gain,  that  we 
applaud  their  deeds,  unless  we  emulate  their  vir- 
tues. Love  of  country  was  in  them  an  absorbing 
principle,  an  undivided  feeling ; not  of  a frag- 
ment, a section,  but  of  the  whole  country.  Union 
was  the  arch  on  which  they  raised  the  strong 
tower  of  a nation’s  independence.  Let  the  arm 
be  palsied,  that  would  loosen  one  stone  in  the 
basis  of  this  fair  structure,  or  mar  its  beauty ; the 
tongue  mute,  that  would  dishonor  their  names, 
by  calculating  the  value  of  that,  which  they 
deemed  without  price. 

They  have  left  us  an  example  already  inscribed 
in  the  world’s  memory;  an  example,  portentous 
to  the  aims  of  tyranny  in  every  land  ; an  exam- 
ple that  will  console  in  all  ages  the  drooping  aspi- 
rations of  oppressed  humanity.  They  have  left 
us  a written  charter  as  a legacy,  and  as  a guide 
to  our  course.  But  every  day  convinces  us,  that 
a written  charter  may  become  powerless.  Igno- 
rance may  misinterpret  it ; ambition  may  assail 
and  faction  destroy  its  vital  parts ; and  aspiring 
knavery  may  at  last  sing  its  requiem  on  the  tomb 
of  departed  liberty.  It  is  the  spirit  which  lives; 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


141 


in  this  are  our  safety  and  our  hope ; the  spirit  of 
our  fathers;  and  while  this  dwells  deeply  in  our 
remembrance,  and  its  flame  is  cherished,  ever 
burning,  ever  pure,  on  the  altar  of  our  hearts  ; 
while  it  incites  us  to  think  as  they  have  thought, 
and  do  as  they  have  done,  the  honor  and  the 
praise  will  be  ours,  to  have  preserved  unim- 
paired the  rich  inheritance,  which  they  so  nobly 
achieved. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 


By  Rufus  Dawes. 


The  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 

And  wheels  her  course  in  a joyous  flight : 

I know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 

By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there ; 

She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 

And  gems  the  valleys  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I know  where  she  rested  at  night, 

For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight : 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  around  her  flings 
A shower  of  light  from  her  purple  wings, 

Till  the  spirit  is  lost  in  the  music  on  high, 

That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstasy  ! 

At  noon  she  hies  to  a cool  retreat, 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet ; 

She  dimples  the  wave,  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 
That  smiles,  as  it  curls,  like  a maiden’s  lip, 

When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain, 
From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 


143 


At  eve,  she  hangs  o’er  the  western  sky 
Dark  clouds  for  a glorious  canopy  ; 

And  round  the  skirts  of  each  sweeping  fold, 

She  paints  a border  of  crimson  and  gold, 

Where  the  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 

When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power ; ] 
She  mellows  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 
With  shadows  that  flit  like  a fairy  dream  : — 

Still  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladsome  air, 
The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  everywhere  ! 


THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


By  I.  C.  Pray,  Jr. 

The  roof  is  old.  The  moss-tufts  green 
Cover  each  crevice,  and  their  sheen 
Is  diamond-gemmed  with  dew : 

A rosy  girl,  of  summers  five, 

Her  features  fair  and  glowing, 

Plays  in  the  sun,  so  all-alive, 

Her  locks  so  light  and  flowing, 

She  seems  a fairy  child — a sprite, 

Just  born  to  gratify  the  light — 

A vision  sweet  and  new. 

A laughing  boy,  above  a well, 

Is  peeping  down.  He  cannot  tell 
What  spirit  is  below. 

He  wonders  if  he  sees  an  elf ; 

It  laughs  when  he  is  laughing. 

Is  it  the  semblance  of  himself, 

Or  some  one  water  quaffing? 

To  find  the  truth,  he  calls  aloud. 

Echo  but  mocks.  The  boy  is  proud, 
And  chiding  says,  “I  know.” 


THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


14 


Within  a porch,  upon  a chair 
Time-worn,  and  rich  with  carving  rare, 
Supported  by  a staff, 

A grandfather,  with  wrinkled  face, 

And  gray  eyes  dimly  sparkling, 

Is  watching  some  far  distant  place, 

As  twilight  there  is  darkling, 

With  anxious  mind — till  down  a steep 
A boy  and  girl  like  light  fawns  leap, 
Spring  to  his  knee  and  laugh. 

A grave-yard  walk  ! Amid  its  glooms 
Two  marble  slabs  denote  the  tombs 
Of  two,  with  whom  decayed 
The  grace  of  life  and  beauty’s  power — 
Whose  primal  virtues  burning 
Were  not  the  shadows  of  an  hour, 

But  winged  doves  heavenward  turning ! 
Joined  in  their  lives,  in  death  they  sleep, 
And  evermore  for  them  will  weep 
That  orphan  boy  and  maid. 


13 


TAILORS. 


By  N.  P.  Willis. 


“ Coat ! ” said  Russelton,  with  an  appearance  of  the  most  naive  sur- 
prise, and  taking  hold  of  the  collar  suspiciously,  by  the  finger  and 
thumb  3 u coat,  Sir  Willoughby  ! do  you  call  this  thing  a coat  ? ” 

Pelham. 


A much  abused  person  is  your  tailor.  He  is 
ordinarily  supposed  to  need  less  endowment  than 
his  fellows — (the  ninth  part  of  a man,  I think 
they  call  him) — I shall  prove  to  you  that  he  needs 
more.  Poetry  is  a lesser  art  in  my  esteem. 

Any  man  or  woman  may  stitch — make  a 
“ cover-me-decently.”  The  world  goes  clothed 
— town  and  country — though,  (bear  us  witness, 
Pelham  !)  there  are  but  three  tailors,  (proper 
tailors,  I say,)  from  Bath  to  Savannah.  For  the 
rest,  their  daily  work  is  a profanity  of  broadcloth — 
a sacrilege  of  kerseymere.  Your  eyes  are  shocked 
perpetually  by  the  sight  of  unfortunate  strangers 
who  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  those  Vandals. 
There  should  be  a law  against  the  seductions 
practised  by  them — their  signs  and  their  adver- 
tisements. Merit  is  modest,  and  your  best  artist 
has  often  the  smallest  shop.  Your  pretender 
covers  a square  with  his  blazing  insignia — yet 


TAILORS. 


147 


would  I as  soon  wear  an  Indian’s  blanket,  as  one 
of  his  abortions. 

To  cut  a coat  well,  requires  more  gifts  than  are 
possessed  by  one  man  in  a thousand.  The  main 
points  are,  a painter’s  eye,  an  anatomist’s  ac- 
quaintance with  the  figure,  and  knowledge  of  the 
character,  as  it  is  developed  in  walking  or  sitting, 
wearing  the  coat  open,  (frankly,)  or  buttoned 
(nicely.)  How,  for  instance,  would  your  old 
bachelor’s  coat  look  on  your  ship’s  mate — or  your 
reckless,  rascally  frock,  thrown  off  the  shoulders 
and  flying  to  the  wind,  on  your  demure  deacon  ? 
No  true  tailor  makes  a man  a coat  till  he  has  seen 
him  walk.  The  way  you  move  is  everything.  If 
you  have  a crab’s  gait,  sideways,  the  hitch  must 
be  counteracted.  If  you  are  a meek  man,  and 
carry  your  head  low,  the  collar  must  be  set  back 
to  remedy  the  defect.  If  your  passions  are  vio- 
lent, a tight  sleeve  or  a close  fit  at  the  shoulder  is 
impolitic.  If  your  neck  is  too  long  or  too  short,  if 
your  body  is  crooked  or  your  bust  flat,  or  if  you 
are  a vain  man  and  swell  at  the  lower  button,  it 
must  be  allowed  for  in  your  coat.  It  is  the  tailor’s 
business  to  make  you  perfect — or  seem  so- — which 
is  quite  the  same  thing. 

A friend  of  mine  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  have 
two  or  three  of  — ’s  coats  on  hand.  It  excru- 

ciates me  to  see  him  come  into  the  room — flat 
breasted,  flap-dividing,  pinched  collared,  scrimped, 
pasteboard-looking  abominations ! He  cannot 
move  a limb  without  having  the  whole  coat  fol- 


14S 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


low  in  a piece.  Touch  his  collar  and  his  skirt 
flies  up.  The  moment  it  is  unbuttoned,  down 
hugs  the  cape  to  his  neck,  and  out  flies  the  back 
at  the  waist,  and  the  whole  gets  at  sharp  angles 
to  his  figure,  and  presents  him  to  your  eye  like  a 
caricature  of  a man  frightened.  Save  us  from 
such  spectacles ! 

Your  vile  tailor  does  everything  by  padding. 
He  slips  you  into  a casement  of  buckram  as  unac- 
commodating as  a coffin,  and,  with  the  second 
button  fastened,  shoves  you  up  to  his  glass,  and 
while  you  stand  perfectly  still,  because  you  are 
unable  to  move,  praises  the  smoothness  of  the  fit ! 
And  then  the  pantaloons!  We  were  seduced 
once  to  commit  ourself  to  the  care  of  the  fellow 
above-mentioned.  The  first  pair  we  could  not  sit 
down  in,  if  we  were  to  be  hanged.  The  second 
pair  would  have  fitted  Daniel  Lambert.  We 
would  not  trust  such  a fellow  to  make  a cover  for 
an  umbrella. 

Next  to  the  human  form  divine,  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  in  nature  is  a perfect  coat.  It  is  like  a 
perfect  style — it  looks  as  if  it  was  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world.  The  collar  lies  loose,  and  yet  neatly 
to  the  shoulders.  The  back,  buttoned  or  unbut- 
toned, fits  neatly  and  under  all  motions  to  the 
figure.  The  skirts  hang  gracefully,  and  indepen- 
dently of  the  back,  parallel  and  slender.  The 
sleeves  work  fitly  with  the  arm,  and  the  breasts 
lay  flat  and  yet  ample  on  the  chest,  and  the 
wearer  has  that  look  in  it,  that  a spectator  would 


TAILORS. 


149 


suppose  it  grew  to  him — that  it  was  a part  and 
evidence  of  his  fair  proportions  and  the  skill  of 
the  artist.  There  are  a few  artists  who  have 
acquired  immortality  in  the  cut  of  pantaloons; 
hut  a man  must  grow  gray  in  practice,  before  he 
acquires  even  the  theoretical  principles  of  that 
article. 

You  shall  go  through  the  cities,  and  look  at  the 
popular  tailors,  and  if  there  is  one  who  can  cut 
but  a fragment  of  a coat  well,  who  has  not  a fine 
head  phrenologically,  we  are  forsworn. 

Our  life  on  it,  Stultz  and  Watson  had  heads  for 
senators.  You  may  search  the  world  over,  and 
we  will  warrant  the  result.  Your  quack  tailors 
should  be  selected  for  simpletons  at  once.  They 
are  all  face — all  animal.  Their  heads  are  as  flat 
behind  as  the  white  sides  of  a melon. 


13* 


THE  BUCKET. 

By  Samuel  Woodworth. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ; 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  wild-wood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ; 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy -house  nigh  it, 

And  e’en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well  ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well ! 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I hail  as  a treasure  ; 

For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 

I found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 

How  ardent  I seized  it  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell, 

Then  soon  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  wTell  ! 


THE  BUCKET. 


151 


How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 
As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips  ! 

Not  a full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 
Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 

As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father’s  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  his  well ! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


By  John  S.  J.  Gardiner. 


It  has  been  apprehended  by  some,  that  the  fame 
of  New  England  will  fade  before  the  increasing 
glories  of  the  more  powerful  sister  states.  But 
the  apprehension  is  unfounded.  She  must  ever 
form  an  important  member  of  the  Union.  She  must 
ever  sparkle  a brilliant  star,  in  the  constellation  of 
the  confederated  states,  as  long  as  she  preserves 
her  religious,  civil  and  literary  character,  her 
indefatigable  industry,  and  her  commercial  enter- 
prize.  For  in  what  consist  the  greatness  and  re- 
spectability of  a nation  ? Most  assuredly,  not  in 
the  numerical  superiority  of  its  inhabitants,  or  in 
the  extent  of  its  territory.  If  that  were  the  case, 
China  and  India  would  be  more  powerful  than 
Europe.  But  the  greatness  and  respectability  of 
a nation  consist  in  the  virtue,  and  vigor,  and  tal- 
ents of  its  citizens.  Rome,  which  sprang  from  the 
humblest  origin,  by  her  admirable  institutions, 
and  steady  valor  and  free  spirit,  subdued  and 
overawed  the  world.  Athens  and  Sparta,  both 
small  states,  but  glorying  in  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence, repulsed  and  defeated  the  numerous  ar- 
mies of  the  Great  King;  and  Alexander,  with 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


153 


thirty  thousand  Grecians,  subjugated  the  various 
and  extensive  provinces  of  Asia.  What  enabled 
the  land  of  our  fathers,  in  a late  contest,  with  very 
inferior  numbers,  successfully  to  resist  almost  all 
Europe  combined  against  her,  under  the  auspices 
of  one  of  the  ablest  generals  that  any  age  has 
ever  produced?  The  freedom  of  her  constitution, 
and  that  spirit  which  freedom  never  fails  to  inspire, 
aided  by  her  commercial  wealth,  and  the  navy 
which  protects  it.  And  while  these  shall  remain 
unimpaired,  the  conquest  of  Western  Europe,  by 
the  arms  of  the  northern  powers,  will  prove  an  idle 
dream.  It  never  can  be  realized,  while  superior- 
ity of  civilization  shall  continue  in  favor  of  the 
opponent. 

What  constitutes  a state  ? 

Not  high-raised  battlements;  or  labored  mound. 

Thick  wall,  or  moated  gate  3 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned, 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports, 

Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride  j 
Nor  starred  and  spangled  courts, 

Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No.  Men,  high-minded  men, 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued, 

In  forest,  brake  or  den, 

As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 

But  know  their  rights,  and  knowing  dare  maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 

And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain  ; — 

These  constitute  a state. 


And  while  the  inhabitants  of  New  England, 
and  of  this  ancient  state  in  particular,  shall  pre- 


154 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


serve  and  continue  to  improve  their  present  ad- 
vantages, they  cannot  fail  to  fill  their  ancient 
space  in  the  eye  of  America  and  the  world.  From 
this  our  eastern  hive  issue  annually  swarms  of  our 
enterprising  fellow-citizens,  carrying  with  them 
into  the  wilderness,  the  lights  of  learning,  and  of 
civilization,  and  of  religion.  “ The  dreary  desert 
and  the  howling  waste 77  gradually  disappear  be- 
fore them.  A terrestrial  “ paradise  is  opened  in 
the  wild.7’  The  comfortable  cottage  and  social 
hamlet  arise,  and  the  newly-raised  sanctuary  be- 
comes vocal  with  the  praises  of  the  Creator  and 
Redeemer. 

Nor  does  the  enterprise  of  New  England  exact 
less  tribute  from  the  ocean.  Our  “march,”  like 
that  of  our  progenitors,  is  also  “on  the  mountain 
wave.”  “ Our  home  is  on  the  deep.77  The 
American  flag  displays  its  stripes  over  every  sea 
that  bathes  the  shores  of  the  habitable  globe;  and 
we  are  amply  supplied  with  all  the  necessaries 
and  luxuries  of  foreign  climes. 

The  fruits  of  this  commercial  enterprise  are  visi- 
ble whithersoever  we  turn  our  eyes ; in  the  splen- 
did palaces,  which  adorn  our  city  and  our  towns: 
in  the  elegant  villas,  which  decorate  their  vicinity  ; 
and  in  the  enchanting  scenery,  created  by  the 
united  powers  of  taste  and  wealth,  and  reclaimed 
from  a rugged  soil. 

These  advantages  we  can  never  lose  but  through 
our  own  fault ; by  the  neglect  or  abandonment  of 
those  principles  and  institutions  to  which  they  owe 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


1 55 


their  rise.  Even  should  an  event  so  unfortunate 
ever  happen — for  we  cannot  foresee  “ through 
what  varied  scenes  of  untried  being  ” we  may  yet 
“pass  ” — still  the  justly  earned  fame  of  this  an- 
cient state  and  metropolis  can  never  die.  It  will 
survive  in  the  annals  of  history,  imperishable  as 
the  page  that  records  it.  The  ground  we  tread 
on  is  classic  ground.  It  is  enriched  with  the 
blood  of  patriots,  and  consecrated  by  their  he- 
roic deeds.  Here — will  the  future  pilgrim  say — 
here  is  the  birth-place  of  American  Independence. 
Here  first  was  heard  the  voice  that  led  to  it — Tax- 
ation WITHOUT  REPRESENTATION  IS  TYRANNY.  Here 

first  the  unconstitutional  encroachments  of  the 
parent  country  were  resisted.  Here  first  the  battle 
bled.  Here  the  gallant  Warren  fell,  in  the  vigor 
of  manhood,  the  first  distinguished  martyr  to  the 
liberties  of  his  country. 

These  are  achievements,  that  will  immor- 
talize the  name  of  Massachusetts  and  of  Boston. 
The  laurels  which  they  have  gathered  will 
never  lose  their  verdure.  It  will  freshen  with 
the  lapse  of  time.  The  fame  of  her  statesmen 
and  of  her  heroes  will  grow  with  the  increase  of 
years.  Its  shadow  will  lengthen  as  her  sun  de- 
clines. The  deeds  of  their  progenitors  will  sur- 
vive in  the  memory  of  a grateful  posterity.  They 
will  inspire  in  distant  generations  an  honorable 
pride  and  patriotic  emulation,  long  after  the  mon- 
umental marble  shall  have  crumbled  into  ruins, 
and  its  countless  atoms  shall  have  mingled  with 
the  wind. 


THE  DEAD. 


By  Grenville  Mellen. 

Ye  dead,  ye  dead — why  come  ye  so 
Like  shadows  round  my  head, 

Stealing  with  steps  so  dim  and  slow, 

And  such  a noiseless  tread  ? 

Ye  come  like  dreams  of  buried  years, 

Not  veiled  in  frowns,  but  bright  in  tears  ! 

The  night  is  bowing  round  the  world ; 
My  spirit  is  alone  ! 

And  have  ye  all  your  shrouds  unfurled, 
And  your  dark  kingdom  flown, 

Souls  of  the  glorious  and  high  ! 

To  breathe  on  one  so  sunk  as  I ? 

Then  come,  ye  visions  of  the  grave, 

I welcome  ye  to  earth  ; 

I see  ye  rise  from  land  and  wave, 

As  summoned  to  new  birth ! 

I see  ye  come,  a glimmering  band, 

Like  stars  before  night’s  ebon  wand ! 


Shadows  of  beauty  ! I have  dreamed 
Of  glory  passed  away 
To  realms  where  all  its  brightness  seemed 


TIIE  DEAD. 


157 


Lost  in  one  golden  day ; 

The  glory  of  some  holy  one, 

Who  shone,  on  earth,  my  spirit’s  sun  ! 

Shadows  of  beauty  ! do  ye  dwell 
In  such  high  company — 

Where  Heaven’s  unbounded  arches  swell, 
Where ’t  is  unknown  to  die  ? 

Live  ye,  emancipated  there, 

Semblance  of  all  on  earth  ye  were  ? 

Oh  ! do  these  robes  that  round  me  sail, 
These  shadowy  robes  of  air, 

The  same  pure  forms  of  beauty  veil, 

That  gladden  life’s  wayfare  ? 

Do  ye  united  wing  the  skies, 

In  shapes  once  light  of  mortal  eyes  ? 

Spirits  of  loveliness  ! are  ye 
Before  the  Old  in  Days, 

Permitted  in  those  courts  to  see 
Life’s  loved  ones  bend  in  praise  ? 

Meet  ye  those  idols  purified, 

For  whom,  on  earth,  ye  wept — and  died  ? 

Oh  ! if  to  pilgrim  man ’t  were  given 
To  meet  in  yonder  sky 
His  friends,  devote  to  God  and  Heaven, 

It  were  but  bliss  to  die  ! 

What  joy  to  tread  those  fields  for  aye, 

In  such  a deathless  company  ; 


14 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


To  sweep  the  golden  harps  ; to  rise 
Upon  the  eternal  lyre, 

With  melody  that  never  dies, 

From  the  white-robed  angel  choir; 

To  pour  the  soul  in  one  glad  song, 

That  echoing  ages  shall  prolong ! 

Then  welcome — ye  long  buried  forms, 
Ye  beautiful  of  old  ! 

Your  voice  my  stirring  spirit  warms 
Into  fair  dreams  untold. 

New  life,  new  life  is  breaking  there, 
Deep  in  yon  sparkling  realms  of  air  ! 

I fear  ye  not — I fear  ye  not, 

Dim  shadows  of  the  grave, 

Revoking  years  I had  forgot 
From  time’s  relentless  wave  ! 

Ye  tell  me  we  shall  meet  again, 

Where  comes  not  sorrow,  blight,  or  pain 


POETRY. 


By  Orville  Dewey. 


What  is  poetry  ? The  common  answer  would  be, 
that  it  is  some  peculiar  gift,  some  intellectual 
effluence,  distinct,  not  merely  in  form,  not  merely 
in  rhythm,  but  essentially  and  in  its  very  nature 
distinct  from  all  prose  writings.  Its  numbers  are 
mystic  numbers;  its  themes  are  far  above  us, 
and  away  from  us,  in  the  clouds,  or  in  the  hues 
of  the  distant  landscape ; it  is  at  war  with  the 
realities  of  life;  and  it  is  especially  afraid  of  logic. 
It  is  using  no  extravagant  language,  it  is  commit- 
ting no  vulgar  mistake,  to  say,  that  poetry  is  re- 
garded as  a kind  of  “ peculiar  trade  and  mystery,” 
nay,  in  a sense  beyond  that  of  this  technical  lan- 
guage, as  a real  and  absolute  mystery.  In  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  journals  of  the  day, 
we  find  a writer  complaining  after  this  sort: — 
“ Poetry,”  says  he,  u the  workings  of  genius 
itself,  which,  in  all  times,  and  with  one  or 
another  meaning,  has  been  called  inspiration,  and 
held  to  be  mysterious  and  inscrutable,  is  no  longer 
without  its  scientific  exposition.”  And  why — let 


160 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


us  ask — why  should  it  be  without  its  exposition  ? 
— ay,  and  if  there  were  any  such  thing  as  a sci- 
ence of  criticism  among  us,  (for  the  truth  is,  there 
is  a great  deal  less  of  it  than  there  was  in  the 
days  of  Addison  and  Johnson,)  I would  say  its 
scientific  exposition.  What  is  poetry  ? What  is 
this  mysterious  thing,  but  one  form  in  which  hu- 
man nature  expresses  itself?  What  is  it  but  em- 
bodying, what  is  it  but  “ showing  up,”  in  all  its 
moods,  from  the  lowliest  to  the  loftiest,  the  same 
deep  and  impassioned,  but  universal  mind,  which 
is  alike  and  equally  the  theme  of  philosophy  ? 
What  does  poetry  tell  us,  but  that  which  was 
already  in  our  own  hearts?  What  are  all  its 
intermingled  lights  and  shadows ; what  are  its 
gorgeous  clouds  of  imagery,  and  the  hues  of  its 
distant  landscapes  ; what  are  its  bright  and 
blessed  visions,  and  its  dark  pictures  of  sorrow 
and  passion,  but  the  varied  reflection  of  the  beauti- 
ful and  holy,  and  yet  overshadowed,  and  marred, 
and  afflicted  nature  within  us  ? And  how  then 
is  poetry  any  more  inscrutable  than  our  own 
hearts  are  inscrutable  ! To  whom  or  to  what, 
let  me  ask  again,  does  poetry  address  itself?  To 
what,  in  its  heroic  ballads,  in  its  epic  song,  in  its 
humbler  verse,  in  its  strains  of  love,  or  pity,  or 
indignation, — to  what  does  it  speak,  but  to  human 
nature,  but  to  the  common  mind  of  all  the  world  ? 
And  its  noblest  productions,  its  Iliads,  its  Hamlets 
and  Lears,  the  whole  world  has  understood, — the 


POETRY. 


161 


rude  and  the  refined,  the  anchorite  and  the  throng 
of  men.  There  is  poetry  in  real  life,  and  in  the 
humblest  life  ; and  in  this,  if  it  may  not  misbe- 
come me  to  say  so,  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  our 
English  poets  right;  though  in  the  application  of 
his  theory,  I would  venture  to  assert,  with  the 
same  reservation  for  my  modesty,  that  he  has 
sometimes  made  the  most  lamentable,  not  to  say 
ludicrous  mistakes.  There  in  “ unwritten  poetry 
there  is  poetry  in  prose;  there  is  poetry  in  all 
living  hearts. 

Let  him  be  the  true  poet  who  shall  find  it,  sym- 
pathize with  it,  and  bring  it  to  light.  He  that 
does  so  must  deeply  study  human  nature.  He 
that  does  so,  must,  whether  he  knows  it  or  not, 
be  a philosopher.  Much  there  is,  no  doubt,  of 
technical  language,  much  about  quiddities  and 
entities,  that  he  may  not  know.  But  he  must 
know,  and  that  by  deep  study  and  observation, 
how  feelings  and  passions  rise  in  the  human 
breast,  what  are  those  which  coexist,  what  repel 
each  other,  what  naturally  spring  one  from  an- 
other; he  must  know  what  within  is  moved,  and 
how  it  is  put  in  action  by  all  this  moving  world 
around  us ; what  chords  are  struck,  not  only  by 
the  rough  touches  of  fortune,  but  what  are  swept 
by  invisible  influences ; he  must  know  all  the 
wants,  and  sufferings,  and  joys  of  this  inward 
being,  what  are  its  darkest  struggles,  its  sublimest 
tendencies,  its  most  soothing  hopes,  and  most 
14* 


162 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


blessed  affections ; and  all  this  is  divine  philoso- 
phy. He  must  wait  almost  in  prayer  at  the  ora- 
cle within ; he  must  write  the  very  language  of 
his  own  soul;  he  must  write  no  rash  response 
from  the  shrines  of  idolized  models;  but  asking, 
questioning,  listening  to  the  voice  within,  as  he 
writes  ; and  then  will  the  deepest  philosophy  take 
the  form  of  the  noblest  inspiration. 


THE  LAST  BOUQUET. 


By  H.  T.  Tuckerman. 


There ’s  sadness  in  your  bloom  to-night, 
My  freshly-gathered  flowers, 

As  though  ye  conscious  emblems  were 
Of  happy  by-gone  hours  : 

Your  fragrant  breath  floats  heavily  ; 

Each  leaflet  seems  to  say — 

O’er  writ  with  fairy-graven  lines — 

“ It  is  the  last  bouquet.” 

The  drops  within  your  chalices 
Seem  tears  ye  shed  for  me, 

O’er  hopes  that  like  ye  clustered  once 
In  glad  fraternity ; 

But  ye  are  destined  for  a shrine 
Where  I no  more  can  lay 
My  floral  gifts,  and  to  it  now 
I bear  my  last  bouquet. 

When  deeply  in  your  buds  ye  slept, 

I culled  with  heart-felt  glee 
Your  gay  compeers,  the  elder  born, 

And  twined  them  merrily. 


164 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


To  speak  what  flowers  were  made  to  tell, 
And  what  they  best  can  say — 

The  olden  charm  bides  not  with  ye — 

Ye  are  Love’s  last  bouquet. 

While  winding  down  our  pilgrim  path, 
Through  this  dim  vale  of  care, 

With  rapture  deep  and  beaming  eye, 

We  hail  each  new  parterre, 

Where  buds  of  hope  and  half-blown  joys 
Are  blent  in  bright  array; 

Delighted  there  we  pluck  and  bind, 

Till  Pleasure’s  last  bouquet. 

Oh  ! when  each  flowery  nook  is  gleaned, 
And  nought  remains  to  wreathe, 

But  shrubs  all  wild  and  flowerless, 

That  no  sweet  odors  breathe — 

Unto  perennial  fields  I ’d  fly, 

Through  upper  gardens  stray, 

To  tread  again  no  desert  track, 

Nor  cull  a last  bouquet. 


THE  IDLE  BOYS. 


[An  Illustration  of  a Picture  by  Fisher.] 

By  J.  O.  Sargent. 

Hardly  a hundred  years  have  passed 
Since  I was  gay  as  you  ; 

When  earth  was  ever  green  to  me, 

And  skies  were  ever  blue  ,* 

And  I loved  the  running  summer  brook 
And  the  forest’s  autumn  hue. 

But  time,  that  brings  some  change  to  all, 
Hath  wrought  much  change  with  me  : 

And  in  many  things  I am  much  unlike 
The  boy  I used  to  be, 

When  years  ago  I loved  to  play 
Beneath  the  spreading  tree. 

Care  has  not  overshadowed  me, 

Nor  sorrow  been  my  lot ; 

And  I have  spent  some  pleasant  hours 
Too  bright  to  he  forgot ; 

And  forged  strong  chains  that  bind  me  to 
This  dim  and  earthly  spot. 


166 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


My  best  and  earliest  friend  is  dead, 
Untouched  by  stain  of  sin ; 

But  they  still  live  whose  memories 
Light  up  a love  within, — 

Hope  lives — and  holds  the  laurels  out 
That  I would  die  to  win ! 

For  a wide  future  is  before — 

My  heart  beats  high  for  fame  ; 

And  I have  learned  to  breathe  with  love 
The  music  of  a name, 

Writ  on  the  tablets  of  my  heart 
In  syllables  of  flame. 

Oh  ! little  thought  have  ye  of  all 
That  comes  in  after  years, 

To  stir  the  spirit  with  a spell 
Of  changing  hopes  and  fears, 

And  ruin  all  the  fancy-work 
That  dreaming  boyhood  rears. 

Play— while  the  glad  hours  sparkle  by, 
Like  the  bubbles'' of  a stream  ; 

Play  on — the  world  may  be  to  you, 

All  that  it  now  may  seem  ; 

Love  may  not  be  a phantasy, 

Nor  fame  an  idle  dream  ! 


BARBERS. 


By  S.  P.  Holbrook. 

There  is  good  matter  for  speculation  in  your  bar- 
ber’s brain — 


u he  hath  strange  places  crammed 

With  observation  $ the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms.” 

His  mind  is  a dainty  piece  of  Mosaic — a tesse- 
lated  pavement,  inlaid  with  fragments  of  various 
forms  and  colors ; here  a bit  of  politics,  there  a ' 
bit  of  poetry;  here  a little  law,  there  a little 
physic;  here  “a  piece  of  black  stone,  and  there 
a piece  of  white.”  He  cuts  out  his  speech  so  as 
to  fit  every  one  who  comes  on.  He  can  discourse 
to  a farmer,  of  bullocks  ; to  a merchant,  of  ships  ; 
to  a broker,  of  stocks,  and  to  a fine  gentleman,  of 
himself.  His  conversation,  for  the  most  part, 
consists  of  what  Wordsworth  calls  “ personal 
talk.”  He  deals  with  men,  not  principles.  Every 
flying  bit  of  news,  every  anecdote,  every  good 
thing  said  by  the  leading  wits  of  the  day,  seems 
to  come  right  through  his  shop  window,  and  to 
stick  to  him,  like  burs  on  a boy’s  jacket.  He 
knows  all  the  engagements,  the  failures,  the 


168 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


deaths ; who  pays  his  tailor,  and  who  does  not : 
who  wears  false  whiskers,  and  who  real ; he  can 
tell  you  in  a whisper,  the  name  of  the  young 
gentleman  that  was  carried  before  the  Police 
Court  for  riotous  conduct,  and  of  the  lady  of 
“ respectable  connections,’5  who  was  detected  in 
walking  out  of  a shop  in  Washington  Street, 
with  a yard  or  two  of  lace  more  than  she  had 
paid  for. 

He  has  a shrewd  trick  of  observation,  too.  He 
speculates  a good  deal  on  that  part  of  the  head 
which  lies  above  the  nose.  He  sees  a man’s  char- 
acter as  well  as  his  person,  in  a state  of  undress. 
When  a man  is  in  an  arm-chair,  his  head  thrown 
back,  his  coat  off,  lathered  up  to  the  eyes,  he  is 
stripped  of  all  those  cumbrous  folds,  which  a 
sense  of  dignity,  affectation,  or  the  duty  of  self- 
defence  oblige  him  to  wear  about  him,  in  the 
daily  walks  of  life.  The  barber  learns  the  way 
to  his  customers’  weak  side.  He  knows  just  how 
much  flattery  each  one  will  bear  to  swallow, 
without  making  a wry  face.  Observe  how  that 
fat,  old  fool,  now  under  his  hands,  chuckles  with 
delight,  as  he  tells  him,  “ he  never  saw  a man  of 
his  age,  with  so  few  gray  hairs  upon  his  head.” 

Ever  since  reading  the  Arabian  Nights  I have 
had  a warming  of  the  heart  towards  a barber, 
and  the  sentiment  has  increased  both  by  subse- 
quent reading  and  observation.  Whenever  I 
came  across  one  in  a book,  I depended  upon  get- 
ting many  a good  laugh  out  of  him,  and  I was 


BARBERS. 


169 


seldom  disappointed.  Authors,  all  over  the  world, 
agree  in  the  views  they  take  of  their  characters. 
They  are  always  described  as  jovial,  light-hearted 
dogs,  full  to  the  brim  of  fun  and  frolic,  running 
over  with  animal  spirits,  their  tongues  wagging 
the  live-long  day,  and  only  stopping  long  enough 
to  laugh.  Care  makes  many  a clutch  at  them, 
but  they  always  contrive  to  slip  through  his 
fingers.  Poverty  comes  in  at  their  door,  but 
Cheerfulness  does  not  fly  out  of  the  window. 
Old  Age  lays  his  frosty  finger  upon  their  brows, 
and  they  laugh  in  the  gray-beard’s  face.  A 
surly,  malicious,  or  even  reserved  barber,  would 
shock  our  notions  of  propriety  as  much  as  a good- 
natured  Saracen,  or  a benevolent  Ogre.  I grew 
up  in  a little  village,  and  gathered  my  ideas  of  a 
barber  from  books ; he  was  to  me  a Platonic  idea, 
a beautiful  vision,  an  entity,  a shadow;  and, 
when  I came  to  the  city  and  saw  a real  painted 
pole,  I took  off  my  hat  to  it  with  an  involuntary 
impulse  of  respect ; and  as  to  the  day  on  which, 
for  the  first  time,  I was  professionally  taken  by 
the  nose,  I esteem  it  one  of  the  whitest  of  my 
life. 

The  barber,  in  truth,  deserves  all  the  kind 
treatment  he  has  received  from  the  hands  of  men 
of  letters.  He  is  the  essence  of  good  nature.  He 
has  a pleasant  look  with  his  eye,  and  he  could 
not  frown  if  he  would.  His  wit  is  often  as  sharp 
as  his  own  razor,  but  like  that,  it  never  draws 
blood ; it  never  shows  itself  in  gibes,  taunts  and 
15 


170 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


thrusts.  Perhaps  some  crusty  old  bachelor,  that 
prides  himself  upon  shaving  with  cold  water 
every  morning,  may  think  this  a piece  of  especial 
humbug ; if  so,  we  have  reasons  for  our  faith  as 
plenty  as  blackberries. 

In  the  first  place,  no  one  would  choose  the  pro- 
fession that  was  not  a man  of  peace,  full  of  the 
milk  of  human  kindness.  Only  think  of  the 
temptations  that  beset  him — twenty  or  thirty 
necks  laid  bare  to  him  every  day  of  his  life,  with 
full  permission  to  pass  a sharp  razor  within  a 
hair’s  breadth  of  the  carotid  artery  ; — who,  that 
had  a large  organ  of  Destructiveness,  could  re- 
frain from  occasionally  slitting  a wind-pipe,  when 
the  wind  was  east,  or  his  breakfast  not  well 
digested?  “ Think  of  that,  Master  Brook.” 

In  the  second  place,  his  native  goodness  of 
heart  is  fostered  by  the  circumstances  in  which 
he  is  placed.  He  takes  sunny  views  of  life,  and 
sees  men  in  the  best  mood.  No  one  enters  his 
shop  without  having  a mellow  glow  of  satisfac- 
tion steal  over  his  soul.  In  summer  it  is  cooler, 
and  in  winter  warmer  than  the  street,  so  that  the 
first  sensation  is  a highly  pleasurable  one.  And 
whoever  goes  to  get  rid  of  a beard,  or  of  an 
uncomfortable  and  unbecoming  length  of  hair, 
feels  happy  in  his  errand ; it  diffuses  a smiling 
look  over  his  face,  far  unlike  the  frowning  brow 
and  compressed  lip  of  the  poor  fellow,  that  creeps 
to  the  dentist  to  have  a tooth  pulled,  or  to  a law- 
yer to  be  helped  out  of  a scrape.  He  takes  off  his 


BARBERS. 


171 


coat  and  cravat  with  an  expression  of  relief  at 
being  free  from  their  tight  grasp.  He  throws 
himself  down  into  the  chair  with  an  emphasis 
not  to  be  mistaken , and,  taking  a long  breath, 
wafts  away  with  it  all  his  anxieties  and  cares. 
The  “ tonsorial  artist”  now  approaches — he  han- 
dles his  collar  and  neck  as  tenderly  as  a mother 
would  a new-born  infant ; — he  begins  to  lather 
him — there  is  a magic  in  the  touch  of  the  brush 
— it  thrills  to  the  marrow.  Now  he  sees  and 
feels  the  sharp  steel  playing  around  his  chin,  and 
every  cut  takes  off  a weight  from  his  spirits. 
It  is  finished  ; — he  arises  a new  man — he  feels 
clean  and  smooth,  and  pure  in  heart — he  will 
assent  to  a paradox,  laugh  at  an  old  story,  and 
say  amen  to  a prayer  for  his  enemies.  Happy 
the  creditor  that  can  catch  him  at  this  auspicious 
moment.  He  will  be  paid  with  a smile  ! 


I SEE  THEE  STILL. 


By  Charles  Sprague. 


11 1 rocked  her  in  the  cradle, 

And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.  She  was  the  youngest : 

What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie ! The  youngest  ne’er  grow  old. 

The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them;  and  when  they  die, 

Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them.” 

I see  thee  still : 

Remembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 

Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 

Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 

Thou’rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night ; 
In  dreams  I meet  thee  as  of  old  ; 

Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold, 

And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear  ; 

In  every  scene  to  memory  dear, 

I see  thee  still. 

I see  thee  still, 

In  every  hallowed  token  round  ; 

This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 

This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded, 

This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided, 


I SEE  THEE  STILL. 


173 


These  flowers,  all  withered  now,  like  thee, 
Sweet  Sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  me  ; 

This  book  was  thine,  here  didst  thou  read ; 
This  picture,  ah  ! yes,  here,  indeed, 

I see  thee  still. 

I see  thee  still  : 

Here  was  thy  summer  noon’s  retreat, 

Here  was  thy  favorite  fireside  seat ; 

This  was  thy  chamber — here,  each  day, 

I sat  and  watched  thy  sad  decay ; 

Here,  on  this  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie, 

Here,  on  this  pillow — thou  didst  die  : 

Dark  hour  ! once  more  its  woes  unfold ; 

As  then  I saw  thee,  pale  and  cold, 

I see  thee  still. 

I see  thee  still : 

Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined — 

Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  mind  ; 
Let  earth  close  o’er  its  sacred  trust, 

But  goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust ; 

Thee,  O my  Sister,  ’t  is  not  thee, 

Beneath  the  coffin’s  lid  I see  ; 

Thou  to  a fairer  land  art  gone ; 

There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 

To  see  thee  still ! 


15* 


THE  LEAF. 


By  S.  G.  Goodrich. 


It  came  with  spring’s  soft  sun  and  showers, 
Mid  bursting  buds  and  blushing  flowers ; 

It  flourished  on  the  same  light  stem, 

It  drank  the  same  clear  dews  with  them. 

The  crimson  tints  of  summer  morn, 

That  gilded  one,  did  each  adorn. 

The  breeze,  that  whispered  light  and  brief 
To  bud  or  blossom,  kissed  the  leaf; 

When  o’er  the  leaf  the  tempest  flew, 

The  bud  and  blossom  trembled  too. 

But  its  companions  passed  away, 

And  left  the  leaf  to  lone  decay. 

The  gentle  gales  of  spring  went  by, 

The  fruits  and  flowers  of  summer  die. 

The  autumn  winds  swept  o’er  the  hill, 

And  winter’s  breath  came  cold  and  chill. 

The  leaf  now  yielded  to  the  blast, 

And  on  the  rushing  stream  was  cast. 

Far,  far  it  glided  to  the  sea, 

And  whirled  and  eddied  wearily, 

Till  suddenly  it  sank  to  rest, 

And  slumbered  in  the  ocean’s  breast. 


THE  LEAF. 


175 


Thus  life  begins — its  morning  hours, 
Bright  as  the  birth-day  of  the  flowers  ; 
Thus  passes  like  the  leaves  away, 

As  withered  and  as  lost  as  they. 

Beneath  the  parent  roof  we  meet 
In  joyous  groups,  and  gaily  greet 
The  golden  beams  of  love  and  light, 

That  kindle  to  the  youthful  sight. 

But  soon  we  part,  and  one  by  one, 

Like  leaves  and  flowers,  the  group  is  gone. 
One  gentle  spirit  seeks  the  tomb, 

His  brow  yet  fresh  with  childhood’s  bloom. 
Another  treads  the  paths  of  fame, 

And  barters  peace  to  win  a name. 

Another  still  tempts  fortune’s  wave, 

And  seeking  wealth,  secures  a grave. 

The  last  grasps  yet  the  brittle  thread — 
Though  friends  are  gone  and  joy  is  dead, 
Still  dares  the  dark  and  fretful  tide, 

And  clutches  at  its  power  and  pride, 

Till  suddenly  the  waters  sever, 

And  like  the  leaf  he  sinks  forever. 


EASY  JOE  BRUCE. 


By  H.  H.  Weld. 


“ Bless  me  !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Joseph  Bruce, — or 
perhaps  we  should  rather  say  Joe  Bruce,  for,  as 
he  was  a noble,  easy  fellow,  nobody  thought  of 
allowing  him  more  than  half  of  his  name,  or  of 
anything  else  which  belonged  to  him, — “ I see  by 
the  paper  that  Hawk  and  Harpy  have  assigned. 
I meant  to  have  secured  my  debt  yesterday ! ” 
He  left  his  coffee  half  drank,  stumbled  over 
the  threshold,  and  went  almost  at  a run  to  the 
counting-room  of  Hawk  and  Harpy.  One  half 
that  speed  on  the  day  before  would  have  saved 
his  debt ; — as  it  was,  he  was  just  in  season  to  put 
on  his  name  at  the  bottom  of  a dozen  and  a half 
preferred  ones,  to  receive  ten  per  cent.  He  went 
back  to  his  unfinished  breakfast  with  what  appe- 
tite he  might. 

“Why  did  you  neglect  this  so  long,  Mr. 
Bruce?  ” said  his  helpmeet  and  comforter. 

“I  meant  to  have  attended  to  it  yesterday,  my 
dear.” 

“ You  meant ! That  is  always  your  way,  Mr. 
Bruce.  You  carelessly  neglect  your  business  to 


EASY  JOE  BRUCE.  J77 

the  last  moment,  and  then  put  yourself  in  a haste 
and  a heat  for  nothing,  my  dear  ! ” 

“ Really,  Mrs.  Bruce” 

But  Mrs.  Bruce  did  not  allow  him  a chance  to 
defend  himself.  O11  she  went,  in  the  most  ap- 
proved conjugal  manner,  to  berate  him  for  his 
carelessness  and  inattention. 

“ Really,  Mrs.  Bruce  ” 

And  it  was  really  Mrs.  Bruce,  for  few  of  the 
feminine,  and  none  of  the  masculine  gender, 
could  have  kept  pace  with  her.  Certainly  Easy 
Joe  could  not.  The  clatter  of  a cotton-mill  would 
not  have  been  a circumstance  to  the  din  she 
raised.  Easy  Joe  pulled  a cigar-case  out  of  his 
pocket — clapped  his  feet  on  the  fender — and  it 
almost  seemed  that  the  smoke  rendered  his  ears 
impervious  to  the  bleatings  of  that  gentle  lamb, 
his  spouse,  so  placid  was  his  countenance,  as  the 
vapor  escaped  in  graceful  volumes  from  his  mouth. 
People  overshoot  the  mark  sometimes  : Mrs.  Bruce 
did.  Had  she  spared  her  oration,  the  morning’s 
loss  would  have  induced  her  husband  to  have  been 
punctual  to  his  business,  for  one  day  at  least.  As 
it  was,  he  took  the  same  sort  of  pride  in  neglect- 
ing it  under  her  lecture,  that  the  Grande  Nation 
took  so  long  in  refusing  to  pay  the  claims  of  our 
citizens. 

“ Breeze  away,  Mrs.  Bruce  ! ” 
u Breeze  away,  sir!  Breeze  away!  I wish  I 
could  impart  one  tittle  of  my  energy  to  you,  Mr. 
Bruce;  1—1” 


178 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Bruce  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  crash ! came  an 
elegant  mantel-clock  down  upon  the  hearth. 

“ There,  Mr.  Bruce  ! That  clock  has  stood  there 
three  months  without  fastening ; a single  screw 
would  have  saved  it;  but” 

“ Well,  I meant  to  ” 

“ You  meant!  Mr.  Bruce — You  meant  won’t 
pay  the  damage,  nor  Hawk  and  Harpy’s  note ! 
You  meant,  indeed  ! ” 

Bruce  seized  his  hat  and  cloak.  In  a few  min- 
utes he  was  on  ’Change.  Nobody  could  read  in 
his  face  any  traces  of  the  late  matrimonial  breeze, 
and  nobody  would  have  suspected  from  his  coun- 
tenance that  Hawk  and  Harpy  failed  in  his  debt. 
Easy  Joe  Bruce  ! 

“ Well,  Mr.  Bruce,  they’ve  routed  him.” 

“ Who?” 

“ Our  friend  Check.  Pingree  was  chosen  presi- 
dent of  the Bank,  this  morning.  One  vote 

would  have  stopped  him.” 

How  deusedly  unlucky.  I meant  to  have  been 
present  to  vote  for  Check  myself.” 

“Never  mind,  Bruce,”  said  another.  “You 
are  a lucky  man.  The  news  of  the  great  fire  in 
Speederville  has  just  reached  town,  by  express, 
and  I congratulate  you  that  you  was  fully  in- 
sured.” 

“Insured!  my  policy  expired  last  week.  I 
meant  to  have  got  it  renewed  this  morning.” 

Joe  posted  home  in  no  very  happy  humor. 


EASY  JOE  BRUCE.  J79 

When  an  easy  man  is  fairly  up,  he  is  the  most 
uneasy  and  unreasonable  man  in  creation. 

“Mrs.  Bruce,  by  staying  at  home  to  hear  you 
scold,  I have  lost  thousands.  I meant  to  have 
got  insured  this  morning.  I did  not;  Speederville 
is  burned  down,  and  I am  a beggar.57 

“ Why  did  you  not  do  it  yesterday,  Mr. 
Bruce  ? 77 

“ I was  thinking  of  Hawk  and  Harpy.77 

“Thinking!  Why  did  you  not  secure  your- 
self?77 

“ I meant  to,  but 77 * 

“ But — me  no  buts.77 

“ You  are  in  excellent  spirits,  Mrs.  Bruce.77 

“ Never  in  better.77 

“ Vastly  fine,  madam.  We  are  beggars.77 

Mrs.  Bruce  sat  down,  and  clapped  her  feet  on 
the  fender,  after  her  husband’s  manner  in  the 
morning. 

“ We  are  beggars,  madam,77  Bruce  repeated. 

“ Very  good — I will  take  my  guitar,  and  you 
shall  shoulder  the  three  children.  We7ll  play 
under  Mr.  Hawk’s  window  first,  then  under  Mr. 
Harpy’s,  and  then  beg  our  way  to  Speederville,  to 
play  to  the  ashes  of  what  was  once  your  factory — 
which  you  meant  to  have  insured.  I should  like 
begging  of  all  things.77 

“You  abominable  woman,  I shall  go  mad.77 

“ Don’t,  I beseech  you.  Mr.  Bruce.  They  put 
mad  beggars  in  Bedlam.77 


180 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Bruce  sprang  for  the  door.  His  wife  intercepted 
him.  “ Here,  Joseph,  is  a paper  I meant  to  have 
shown  you  this  morning.” 

u A policy  ! and  dated  yesterday  ! ” 
u Yes.  You  meant  to  get  it  renewed  to-day — 
/ meant  it  should  be  done  yesterday — so  I told 
your  clerk,  from  you,  to  do  it.  Am  I not  an 
abominable  woman  ? ” 

“ When  I said  so,  I was  in  a pet.  I meant” 

uNo  more  of  that,  Joseph.  Now  tell  me  who 
is  first  on  Hawk  and  Harpy’s  assignment.” 

“ Your  brother.” 

“ His  claim  covers  you  both.” 

“ You  are  an  angel,  Mrs.  Bruce  ! ” 

Easy  Joe  became  an  altered  man,  and  his  wife 
was  released  from  her  watch  over  his  out-door 
business.  She  died  some  years  before  him — but 
we  are  half  inclined  to  suspect,  that  after  her 
death,  Joe  partially  relapsed  into  his  old  habits — 
so  true  it  is,  that  habit  is  a second  nature.  Both 
were  buried  in  the  grave-yard  at  Speederville, 
and  our  suspicions  are  founded  on  something  like 
the  following  conversation,  which  took  place  be- 
tween the  grave-digger  and  his  assistant : — 

“ Where  are  we  to  dig  Mr.  .Bruce’s  grave  ?” 

“I  don’t  know  exactly.  His  will  says,  next 
his  wife.” 

u Where  was  she  laid?  ” 

u That  I don’t  know.  Easy  Joe  always  said 
he  meant  to  place  an  obelisk  over  her, — but  it 
never  was  done.” 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WAR. 


By  I.  McLellan,  Jr. 


The  leaders  of  the  war  of  the  Revolution  are  seen,  by  Fancy's  eye,  to 
take  their  stations  on  the  mount  of  Remembrance.  They  come  from  the 
embattled  cliffs  of  Abraham  5 they  start  from  the  heaving1  sods  of  Bunker 
Hill  3 they  gather  from  the  blazing  lines  of  Saratoga  and  York  town* — 
from  the  blood-dyed  waters  of  the  Brandywine;  from  the  dreary  snows 
of  Valley-Forge,  and  all  the  hard-fought  fields  of  the  war. 

Edward  Everett. 


They  rise,  by  stream  and  yellow  shore, 
By  mountain,  moor  and  fen  ; 

By  weedy  rock  and  torrent  hoar, 

And  lonesome  forest  glen  ! 

From  many  a woody  moss-grown  mound, 
Start  forth  a war-worn  band, 

As  when,  of  old,  they  caught  the  sound 
Of  hostile  arms,  and  closed  around — 

To  guard  their  native  land. 

Hark  ! to  the  clanging  horn — 

Hark  ! to  the  rolling  drum  ! 

Arms  glitter  in  the  flash  of  morn — 

The  hosts  to  battle  come ! 


16 


182 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


The  serried  files,  the  plumed  troop, 

Are  marshalled  once  again, 

Along  the  Hudson’s  mountain  group, 
Along  the  Atlantic  main  ! 

On  Bunker,  at  the  dead  of  night, 

I seem  to  view  the  raging  fight, 

The  burning  town,  the  smoky  height, 
The  onset,  the  retreat ! 

And,  down  the  banks  of  Brandywine, 

I see  the  levelled  bayonets  shine ; 

And  lurid  clouds  of  battle  twine, 

Where  struggling  columns  meet. 

Yorktown  and  Trenton  blaze  once  more, 
And  by  the  Delaware’s  frozen  shore, 
The  hostile  guns  at  midnight  roar, 

The  hostile  shouts  arise. 

The  snows  of  Valley-Forge  grow  red, 
And  Saratoga’s  field  is  spread 
With  heaps  of  undistinguished  dead, 
And  filled  with  dying  cries  ! 

’T  is  o’er  ; the  battle  shout  has  died 
By  ocean,  stream,  and  mountain-side ; 
And  the  bright  harvest,  far  and  wide, 
Waves  o’er  the  blood-drenched  field ; 
The  rank  grass  o’er  it  greenly  grows — 
And  oft,  the  upturning  shares  disclose 
The  buried  arms  and  bones  of  those 
Who  fell,  but  would  not  yield  ! 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WAR. 


183 


Time’s  rolling  chariot  hath  effaced 
The  very  hillocks,  where  were  placed 
The  bodies  of  the  dead  in  haste, 
When  closed  the  furious  fight. 

The  ancient  fort  and  rampart-mound 
Long  since  have  settled  to  the  ground, 
On  Bunker’s  famous  height — 

And  the  last  relics  of  the  brave 
Are  sinking  to  oblivion’s  grave ! 


ROCKALL* 


[Sketched  while  passing  it.] 


By  E.  Sargent,  Jr. 

Pale  ocean  rock ! that,  like  a phantom  shape, 

Or  some  mysterious  spirit’s  tenement, 

Risest  amid  this  wilderness  of  waves 
Lonely  and  desolate — thy  spreading  base 
Is  planted  in  the  sea’s  unmeasured  depths, 

Where  rolls  the  huge  leviathan  o’er  sands 
Glistening  with  shipwrecked  treasures ! The  strong 
wind 

Flings  up  thy  sides  a veil  of  feathery  spray, 

With  sunbeams  interwoven,  and  the  hues 
Which  mingle  in  the  rainbow.  From  thy  top 
The  sea-birds  rise,  and  sweep  with  sidelong  flight 
Downward  upon  their  prey,  or,  with  poised  wings, 
Skim  to  the  horizon  o’er  the  glittering  deep. 

Our  bark,  careening  to  the  welcome  breeze, 

With  white  sails  filled  and  streamers  all  afloat, 


* Rockall  is  a block  of  granite,  growing,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  sea, 
farther  from  the  main  land,  probably,  than  any  other  island  or  rock  of 
the  same  diminutive  size  in  the  world.  It  is  only  seventy  feet  high,  and 
not  more  than  a hundred  yards  in  circumference.  It  lies  one  hundred 
and  eighty-four  miles  nearly  due  west  of  St.  Kilda,  the  remotest  part  of 
the  Hebrides,  and  is  two  hundred  and  sixty  miles  from  the  north  of 
Ireland. 


ROCKALL. 


185 


Shakes  from  her  dipping  prow  the  foam,  while  we 
Gaze  on  thy  outline  mingling  in  the  void, 

And  draw  our  breaths  like  men  who  see,  amazed, 
Some  mighty  pageant  passing.  What  had  been 
Our  fate  last  night,  if,  when  the  aspiring  waves 
Were  toppling  o’er  our  mainmast,  and  the  stars 
Were  shrouded  in  black  vapors,  we  had  struck 
Full  on  thy  jagged  cliffs  ! gray  sentinel ! 

But  now  another  prospect  greets  our  sight, 

And  hope  elate  is  rising  with  our  hearts. 

Intensely  blue  the  sky’s  resplendent  arch 
Bends  over  all  serenely : not  a cloud 
Dims  its  pure  radiance.  The  refreshing  air, 

It  is  a luxury  to  feel  and  breathe — 

The  senses  are  made  keener,  and  drink  in 
The  life,  the  joy,  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

Repeller  of  the  wild  and  thundering  surge ! 

For  ages  has  the  baffled  tempest  howled 
By  thee  with  all  its  fury,  and  piled  up 
The  massive  waters  like  a falling  tower 
To  dash  thee  down  ; but  there  thou  risest  yet, 

As  calm  amid  the  roar  of  storms,  the  shock 
Of  waves  uptorn  and  hurled  against  thy  front, 

As  when  on  summer  eves,  the  crimsoned  main, 

In  lingering  undulations,  girds  thee  round  ! 

Oh ! might  I stand  as  steadfast  and  as  free 
Mid  the  fierce  strife  and  tumult  of  the  world, 

The  crush  of  all  the  elements  of  wo, 

Unshaken  by  their  terrors,  looking  forth 
16* 


186 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


With  placid  eye  on  life’s  uncertain  sea, 

Whether  its  waves  were  darkly  swelling  high, 
Or  dancing  in  the  sunshine; — then  might  frown 
The  clouds  of  fate  around  me ! Firm  in  faith, 
Pointing  serenely  to  that  better  world 
Where  there  is  peace,  I would  abide  the  storm, 
Unmindful  of  its  rage  and  of  its  end. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  MOTHER  LAND. 


By  A.  H.  Everett. 


No  country  ever  exhibited  so  strongly  the  out- 
ward marks  of  general  industry,  wealth  and 
prosperity,  as  England  now  does.  The  misery 
that  exists,  whatever  it  may  he,  retires  from 
public  view;  and  the  traveller  sees  no  traces 
of  it,  except  in  the  beggars,  who  are  not  more 
numerous  than  they  are  on  the  continent,  in 
the  courts  of  justice,  and  in  the  newspapers. 
On  the  contrary,  the  impressions  he  receives 
from  the  objects  that  meet  his  view,  are  almost 
uniformly  agreeable.  He  is  pleased  with  the 
great  attention  paid  to  his  personal  accommo- 
dation as  a traveller,  with  the  excellent  roads, 
and  the  convenience  of  the  public  carriages  and 
inns.  The  country  everywhere  exhibits  the 
appearance  of  high  cultivation,  or  else  of  wild 
and  picturesque  beauty;  and  even  the  unim- 
proved lands  are  disposed  with  taste  and  skill,  so 
as  to  embellish  the  landscape  very  highly,  if  they 
do  not  contribute,  as  they  might,  to  the  substan- 
tial comfort  of  the  people.  From  every  eminence, 
extensive  parks  and  grounds,  spreading  far  and 


188 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


wide,  over  hill  and  vale,  interspersed  with  dark 
woods  and  variegated  with  bright  waters,  unroll 
themselves  before  the  eye,  like  enchanted  gardens. 
And  while  the  elegant  constructions  of  the  modern 
proprietors  fill  the  mind  with  images  of  ease  and 
luxury,  the  mouldering  ruins,  that  remain  from 
former  ages,  of  the  castles  and  churches  of  their 
feudal  ancestors,  increase  the  interest  of  the  pic- 
ture by  contrast,  and  associate  with  it  poetical 
and  affecting  recollections  of  other  times  and 
manners.  Every  village  seems  to  be  the  chosen 
residence  of  industry,  and  her  handmaids,  neat- 
ness and  comfort;  and  in  the  various  parts  of  the 
island,  her  operations  present  themselves  under 
the  most  amusing  and  agreeable  variety  of  forms. 
Sometimes  her  votaries  are  mounting  to  the  skies 
in  manufactories  of  innumerable  stories  in  height, 
and  sometimes  diving  in  mines  into  the  bowels  of 
the  earth,  or  dragging  up  drowned  treasures  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  At  one  time,  the  orna- 
mented grounds  of  a wealthy  proprietor  seem  to 
realize  the  fabled  Elysium;  and  again,  as  you 
pass  in  the  evening  through  some  village  engaged 
in  the  iron  manufacture,  where  a thousand  forges 
are  feeding  at  once  their  dark  red  fires,  and 
clouding  the  air  with  their  volumes  of  smoke, 
you  might  think  yourself  for  a moment  a little 
too  near  some  drearier  residence. 

The  aspect  of  the  cities  is  as  various  as  that  of 
the  country.  Oxford,  in  the  silent,  solemn  gran- 
deur of  its  numerous  collegiate  palaces,  with  their 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  MOTHER  LAND.  Xg9 


massy  stone  walls  and  vast  interior  quadrangles, 
seems  like  the  deserted  capital  of  some  departed 
race  of  giants.  This  is  the  splendid  sepulchre, 
where  science,  like  the  Roman  Tarpeia,  lies 
buried  under  the  weight  of  gold,  that  rewarded  her 
ancient  services,  and  where  copious  libations  of 
the  richest  port  and  madeira  are  daily  poured  out 
to  her  memory.  At  Liverpool,  on  the  contrary, 
all  is  bustle,  brick  and  business.  Everything 
breathes  of  modern  times  ; everybody  is  occupied 
with  the  concerns  of  the  present  moment,  except- 
ing indeed  one  elegant  scholar,  who  unites  a sin- 
gular resemblance  to  the  Roman  face  and  dignified 
person  of  our  Washington,  with  the  magnificent 
spirit  and  intellectual  accomplishments  of  his 
own  Italian  hero.  At  every  change  in  the  land- 
scape, you  fall  upon  monuments  of  some  new 
race  of  men,  among  the  number  that  have  in 
their  turn  inhabited  these  islands.  The  myste- 
rious monument  of  Stonehenge,  standing  remote 
and  alone  upon  a bare  and  boundless  heath,  as 
much  unconnected  with  the  events  of  past  ages, 
as  it  is  with  the  uses  of  the  present,  carries  you 
back  beyond  all  historical  records  into  the  ob- 
scurity of  a wholly  unknown  period.  Perhaps 
the  Druids  raised  it;  but  by  what  machinery 
could  these  half  barbarians  have  wrought  and 
moved  such  immense  masses  of  rock  ? By  what 
fatality  is  it,  that  in  every  part  of  the  globe,  the 
most  durable  impressions  that  hare  been  made 


190 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


upon  its  surface,  were  the  work  of  races  now 
entirely  extinct  ? Who  were  the  builders  of  the 
pyramids  and  the  massy  monuments  of  Egypt 
and  India?  Who  constructed  the  Cyclopean 
walls  of  Italy  and  Greece,  or  elevated  the  innu- 
merable and  inexplicable  mounds,  which  are  seen 
in  every  part  of  Europe,  Asia  and  America  ; or 
the  ancient  forts  upon  the  Ohio,  on  whose  ruins 
the  third  growth  of  trees  is  now  more  than  four 
hundred  years  old  ? All  these  constructions  have 
existed,  through  the  whole  period  within  the 
memory  of  man,  and  will  continue  when  all  the 
architecture  of  the  present  generation,  with  its 
high  civilization  and  improved  machinery,  shall 
have  crumbled  into  dust.  Stonehenge  will  remain 
unchanged,  when  the  banks  of  the  Thames  shall 
be  as  bare  as  Salisbury  heath.  But  the  Romans 
had  something  of  the  spirit  of  these  primitive 
builders,  and  they  left  everywhere  distinct  traces 
of  their  passage.  Half  the  castles  in  Great 
Britain  were  founded,  according  to  tradition,  by 
Julius  Caesar ; and  abundant  vestiges  remain 
throughout  the  island  of  their  walls  and  forts  and 
military  roads.  Most  of  their  castles  have,  how- 
ever, been  built  upon  and  augmented  at  a later 
period,  and  belong  with  more  propriety  to  the 
brilliant  epoch  of  the  Gothic  architecture.  Thus 
the  keep  of  Warwick  dates  from  the  time  of 
Caesar,  while  the  castle  itself,  with  its  lofty  bat- 
tlements, extensive  walls,  and  large  enclosures, 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  MOTHER  LAND. 

bears  witness  to  the  age  when  every  Norman 
chief  was  a military  despot  within  his  own 
barony. 

To  this  period  appertain  the  principal  part  of 
the  magnificent  Gothic  monuments,  castles,  ca- 
thedrals, abbeys,  priories  and  churches,  in  various 
stages  of  preservation  and  of  ruin;  some,  like 
Warwick  and  Alnwick  castles,  like  Salisbury 
cathedral  and  Westminster  abbey,  in  all  their 
original  perfection  ; others,  like  Kenilworth  and 
Canterbury,  little  more  than  a rude  mass  of  earth 
and  rubbish ; and  others,  again,  in  the  interme- 
diate stages  of  decay,  borrowing  a sort  of  charm 
from  their  very  ruin,  and  putting  on  their  dark 
green  robes  of  ivy  to  conceal  the  ravages  of  time, 
as  if  the  luxuriant  bounty  of  nature  were  pur- 
posely throwing  a veil  over  the  frailty  and  feeble- 
ness of  art.  What  a beautiful  and  brilliant  vision 
was  this  Gothic  architecture,  shining  out,  as  it 
did,  from  the  deepest  darkness  of  feudal  barbar- 
ism ! And  here,  again,  by  what  fatality  has  it 
happened,  that  the  moderns,  with  all  their  civili- 
zation and  improved  taste,  have  been  as  utterly 
unsuccessful  in  rivalling  the  divine  simplicity  of 
the  Greeks,  as  the  rude  grandeur  of  the  Cyclo- 
peans  and  ancient  Egyptians  ? Since  the  revival 
of  art  in  Europe,  the  builders  have  confined 
themselves  wholly  to  a graceless  and  unsuccessful 
imitation  of  ancient  models.  Strange,  that  the 
only  new  architectural  conception  of  any  value, 


192 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


subsequent  to  the  time  of  Phidias,  should  have 
been  struck  out  at  the  worst  period  of  society, 
that  has  since  occurred.  Sometimes  the  moderns, 
in  their  laborious  poverty  of  invention,  heap  up 
small  materials  in  large  masses,  and  think  that 
St.  Peter’s  or  St.  Paul’s  will  be  as  much  more 
sublime  than  the  Parthenon,  as  they  are  larger ; at 
others,  they  condescend  to  a servile  imitation  of 
the  wild  and  native  graces  of  the  Gothic ; as  the 
Chinese,  in  their  stupid  ignorance  of  perspective, 
can  still  copy,  line  by  line,  and  point  by  point,  a 
European  picture.  But  the  Norman  castles  and 
churches,  with  all  their  richness  and  sublimity, 
fell  with  the  power  of  their  owners  at  the  rise  of 
the  commonwealth.  The  Independents  were  lev- 
ellers of  substance,  as  well  as  form : and  the 
material  traces  they  left  of  their  existence  are  the 
ruins  of  what  their  predecessors  had  built.  They 
too  had  an  architecture,  but  it  was  not  in  wood 
nor  stone.  It  was  enough  for  them  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  the  nobler  fabric  of  civil  liberty. 
The  effects  of  the  only  change  in  society,  that  has 
since  occurred,  are  seen  in  the  cultivated  fields, 
the  populous  and  thriving  cities,  the  busy  ports, 
and  the  general  prosperous  appearance  of  the 
country.  All  the  various  aspects,  that  I have 
mentioned,  present  themselves  in  turns;  and, 
having  gradually  succeeded  to  each  other,  their 
contrasts  are  never  too  rude,  and  they  harmonize 
together,  so  as  to  make  up  a most  agreeable  pic- 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  MOTHER  LAND.  193 

ture.  Sometimes,  as  at  Edinburgh,  the  creations 
of  ancient  and  of  modern  days,  the  old  and  new 
towns,  have  placed  themselves  very  amicably 
side  by  side,  like  Fitzjames  and  Roderic  Dhu, 
reposing  on  the  same  plaid ; while  at  London, 
the  general  emporium  and  central  point  of  the 
whole  system,  every  variety  of  origin  and  social 
existence  is  effaced,  and  all  are  churned  together, 
and  coagulated  into  one  uniform,  though  hetero- 
geneous mass.  There  is  perhaps  no  part  of  Eng- 
land less  agreeable,  and  less  English,  than  the 
metropolis. 


17 


A WORD  FOR  THE  FARMERS. 


By  T.  G.  Fessenden. 


We  ’re  highly  gratified  to  find 
The  public  more  and  more  inclined 
The  Cultivator’s  art  to  practice, 

And  patronize,  because  the  fact  is 
That  righteousness  and  cultivation 
Go  hand  in  hand  t’  exalt  a nation  ; 

And  Husbandry’s  a hobby  which 
A world  may  ride  with  spur  and  switch. 

If  all  mankind  at  once  bestrode  him 
They  could  not  tire  nor  overload  him. 

Not  only  men,  who  sit  astride, 

But  ladies  also  on  a side- 
Saddle  so  neat,  or  on  a pillion, 

That’s  big  enough  to  hold  a million, 

May  ride  our  hobby  with  a cheer-up, 

And  he  ’ll  not  kick,  bite,  plunge,  nor  rear  up. 

We  ’re  tranced  with  rapture,  when  we  find 
The  fairer  moiety  of  mankind, 

Whose  smile  makes  mortal  man’s  condition 
But  little  short  of  sheer  fruition — 

By  whose  society  is  given 
Earth’s  purest  prototype  of  Heaven, 


A WORD  FOR  THE  FARMERS. 


Th’  angelic  part  of  human  nature, 
Inspire  and  aid  the  cultivator. 

A plant  that ’s  sunned  by  ladies’  eyes 
Will  like  an  exhalation  rise  ; — 

We  hope  that  horticulture  may 
Be  therefore  blest  with  beauty’s  ray, 

Till  Flora’s  germs  gem  every  waste, 

And  every  grove ’s  a “ Bower  of  Taste.” 

Adam,  in  Eden,  we  believe, 

Had  been  a brute  without  his  Eve. 

An  arid  heath,  a blasted  common, 

Blest  with  the  smiles  of  lovely  woman, 
We  should  prefer  to  all  that’s  rare 
In  paradise,  without  the  fair. 

We  therefore  pray  that  friendship’s  hand 
From  every  lady  in  the  land, 

May  be  to  us  henceforth  extended, 

From  this  time  till  our  time  is  ended  ; 
And  would  solicit  every  charmer 
To  please  to  patronize  the  Farmer, 

And  make  those  gentlemen,  who  claim 
Her  approbation,  do  the  same  ; 

And  common  justice  must  require  her 
To  grant  this  boon  to  an  admirer 
Like  us,  so  prone  to  chant  her  praises, 

In  verse  which  absolutely  blazes. 

His  head  is  very  like  a stump, 
Whate’er  its  craniologic  bump, 

Who  does  not  see  that  we  the  tillers 
Of  earth  compose  the  nation’s  pillars, 


196 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


And  may  be  styled,  with  strict  propriety, 
The  props  of  civilized  society. 

What  would  have  been  poor  mortals’  lot — 
Yea,  what  were  man,  if  we  were  not  ? 
Nature’s  poor,  simple,  houseless  child, 

The  weakest  wild  beast  of  the  wild, 

Must  live  on  browse ; (his  home  must  be 
A cavern  or  a hollow  tree  ;) 

Sometimes,  in  spite  of  fears  and  cares, 

Be  served  up  raw  to  wolves  and  bears  ; 

Or  maugre  tooth,  nail,  fist,  and  truncheon, 
Make  hungry  catamounts  a luncheon. 

Our  art,  moreover,  claims  ascendence 
As  german  to  our  independence; 

Both,  commonly,  are  co-existent, 

And  each  the  other’s  best  assistant. 

We  farmers  are  a sort  of  stuff, 

Tyrants  will  always  find  too  tough 
For  them  to  W’ork  up  into  slaves, 

The  servile  tools  of  lordly  knaves. 

The  men  who  till  the  stubborn  soil, 
Enlightened,  and  inured  to  toil, 

Cannot  be  made  to  quail  or  cower 
By  traitor’s  art  or  tyrant’s  power. 

They  might  as  well  attempt  to  chain 
The  west  wind  in  a hurricane — 

Make  rivers  run  up  hill  by  frightening, 

Or  steal  a march  on  kindled  lightning™ 
The  great  sea-serpent,  which  we ’ve  read  of, 
Take  by  the  tail  and  snap  his  head  off' — * 
The  firmament  on  cloudy  nights, 


A WORD  FOR  THE  FARMERS. 


197 


Illume  with  artificial  lights, 

By  such  an  apparatus  as 
Is  used  for  lighting  streets  with  gas — 
Or,  having  split  the  north  pole  till  it ’s 
Divided  into  baker’s  billets, 

Make  such  a blaze  as  never  shone, 

And  torrefy  the  frozen  zone — 

With  clubs  assail  the  polar  bear, 

And  drive  the  monster  from  his  lair — 
Attack  the  comets  as  they  run 
With  loads  of  fuel  for  the  sun, 

And  overset  by  oppugnation 
Those  shining  colliers  of  creation — 

The  milky  way  McAdamize, 

A railway  raise  to  span  the  skies, 

Then  make,  to  save  Apollo’s  team, 

The  solar  chariot  go  by  steam  : — 

These  things  shall  tyrants  do,  and  more 
Than  we  have  specified,  before 
Our  cultivators  they  subdue, 

While  grass  is  green,  or  sky  is  blue. 


17* 


HINTS  TO  STUDENTS. 


By  Lyman  Beecher. 


It  seems  to  be  thought  by  many  that  the  design 
of  education  is  the  communication  of  knowledge 
to  passive  mind,  to  be  laid  up  for  use  in  the  store- 
house of  memory.  But  as  well  might  all  the 
products  of  agriculture  and  the  mechanic  arts  be 
laid  up  for  all  future  use  by  the  young  agricul- 
turist and  mechanic.  It  is  the  acquisition  of 
vigor  and  skill  for  a future  productive  industry, 
which  constitutes  the  physical  training  of  the 
one,  and  it  is  vigor  and  dexterity  of  mind  in  the 
acquisition  and  application  of  knowledge,  which 
constitute  chiefly  the  object  of  mental  training. 

The  habit  of  intellectual  self-control,  is  not 
innate.  Human  indolence  abhors  it  as  nature 
does  a vacuum,  and  the  mind  can  be  brought  to 
it  only  by  the  power  of  habitual  training.  It  is 
this  aversion  to  close  attention,  which  produces 
in  the  early  stages  of  college  life  so  many  par- 
tial insurrections  against  the  languages  and  the 
mathematics;  and  such  profound  and  eloquent 
dissertations  upon  the  inutility  of  the  one,  and 
the  folly  of  plodding  through  the  sterile  regions 


HINTS  TO  STUDENTS. 


199 


of  the  other;  and  such  warm-hearted  eulogies 
of  the  literature  and  various  knowledge  which 
glitters  on  the  surface ; for  the  acquisition  of 
which,  the  eye,  and  the  ear,  and  the  memory, 
may  suffice,  with  little  taxation  of  thought  and 
mental  power;  in  which  the  inspirations  of  genius 
are  idolized,  and  hard  study  stigmatized;  in  which, 
instead  of  putting  in  requisition  the  whole  energy 
of  the  soul  to  turn  the  key  of  knowledge,  the 
young  gentleman  may  skip  through  college  with 
kid  gloves  and  a rattan,  worship  Bacchus  and 
Venus,  and  cultivate  the  graces  before  the  glass 
and  before  the  ladies,  and  take  his  diploma,  with 
all  his  college  honors  blushing  thick  upon  his 
vacant  head : a system  of  education  that  might 
suffice  to  qualify  men  to  govern  monkeys,  but 
never  to  govern  mind. 

The  human  mind  has  indeed  waked  up,  and 
broken  loose — rejoicing  as  a giant  to  run  a race 
— but  assuredly  it  will  never  be  restrained  and 
guided  to  auspicious  results  by  dandy  philoso- 
phers and  baby  intellects.  The  minds  that  ride 
on  the  whirlwind  and  direct  the  storm,  must  be 
of  the  first  order,  by  nature  and  by  discipline, 
and  by  various  acquisition. 

Elementary  principles  must  be  ascertained.  No 
man  can  understand  any  science,  or  any  thing, 
who  cannot  lay  his  hand  on  the  elementary  prin- 
ciples, and,  by  the  light  of  these,  trace  out  the 
relations  and  dependencies  of  the  whole.  These 
are  the  key  of  knowledge,  to  which  all  the 


200 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


sciences  open  their  arcana;  and  without  which 
they  remain  inexorably  shut  to  all  manner  of 
demand  and  solicitation.  Without  this  know- 
ledge of  first  principles,  a man  will  behold  truth 
always  in  isolated  fragments,  and  be  surrounded 
by  a wilderness  of  light.  Such  knowledge  is 
like  a mass  of  disordered  mechanism — confusion 
worse  confounded,  and  utterly  incapable  of  use — 
a maze,  overwhelming  and  inextricable. 

There  must  be  precision  of  thought.  The 
mind  cannot  be  thoroughly  exercised  without  it ; 
and  nothing  worthy  of  the  name  of  knowledge 
can  otherwise  be  gained.  There  are  many  who 
go  round  a subject,  and  pass  between  its  parts, 
and  verily  think  they  understand  it,  who,  when 
called  upon  for  an  accurate  description,  can  only 
hesitate  and  stammer  amid  the  glimmering  of 
their  undefined  moonbeams  of  knowledge.  Why 
is  this  ? It  is  because  they  have  nothing — only 
because  they  have  acquired  no  definite  knowledge 
of  the  subjects  they  have  studied.  They  under- 
stand all  subjects  in  general,  and  none  in  particu- 
lar— and  for  the  purposes  of  exact  knowledge 
adapted  to  use,  might  as  well  have  been  star- 
gazing through  a dim  telescope  in  a foggy  night. 

Everything  is  what  it  is,  exactly — and  not 
merely  almost ; and  for  purposes  of  science  or 
use,  a hair’s  breadth  discrepancy  is  as  fatal  as 
the  discrepancy  of  a mile.  Who  could  raise  a 
building  where  every  mortice  and  tenon  only 
almost  fitted  ? or  construct  a useful  almanac, 


HINTS  TO  STUDENTS. 


201 


when  his  calculations  were  almost,  but  not  alto- 
gether exact?  It  is  this  precision  of  knowledge 
which  it  is  the  business  of  literary  and  theological 
institutions  to  communicate,  and  of  their  inmates 
to  acquire,  and  without  it,  not  only  are  the  bless- 
ings of  an  education  lost,  but  the  multiplied  evils 
of  undisciplined  minds — of  indefinite  conceptions 
and  fallacious  reasonings — and  the  bewilderment 
of  a declamatory  flippancy  of  specious  words  are 
poured  out  upon  society  with  an  overflowing 
flood,  sweeping  away  the  landmarks  of  truth  and 
principle,  and  covering  the  surface  with  brush, 
and  leaves,  and  gravel. 

No  wonder  that  scepticism  is  rife,  which  pro- 
claims knowledge  to  be  unattainable,  and  all 
things  doubtful.  What  other  result  could  be  ex- 
pected from  minds  reared  without  first  principles, 
and  reasoning  without  precision  of  conceptions, 
in  respect  either  to  words,  thoughts  or  things? 
No  wonder  that  all  disputes  are  regarded  as  un- 
productive efforts  of  vain  jangling ; for  what 
else  than  profitless  declamation  can  result  from 
discussions  without  first  principles,  definitions, 
or  precision  of  any  sort?  No  wonder  that 
theology  should  be  regarded  as  the  region  of 
chaos  and  old  night — starless  and  dreamy — fan- 
ciful and  feverish — where  the  atoms  of  truth  and 
error  hold  everlasting  conflict  of  attraction,  and 
repulsion,  and  fermentation,  and  revolution,  with- 
out the  possibility  of  system,  or  knowledge,  or 


202 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


obligation  to  know  the  truth,  or  accountability 
for  error. 

Looseness  of  mental  discipline  in  seminaries, 
and  slowness  of  head  and  heart  in  their  inmates 
to  acquire  elementary  and  accurate  knowledge,  is 
a matter  of  deep  concern.  The  original  lack  of 
foundation  and  method,  in  the  governing  minds 
of  a community,  cannot  fail  to  produce  a loose, 
conflicting,  chaotic  state  of  things  in  all  the  de- 
partments of  society.  Lawyers  will  jangle,  phy- 
sicians will  quarrel,  politicians  will  contend,  and 
theologians  dispute,  and  the  public  mind  be  dark- 
ened and  distracted  by  the  very  orbs  appointed 
to  guide  the  day  and  rule  the  night.  Our  repub- 
lican institutions  and  the  church  of  God  demand 
a greater  efficiency  and  variety  of  mind ; and 
the  desideratum  can  be  supplied  only  by  a more 
universal,  energetic  discipline,  upward  from  the 
common  school  to  the  halls  of  legislation,  the 
pulpit  and  the  bar. 

The  art  of  independent  investigation  is  of  pri- 
mary importance.  Every  student  should  be  ac- 
customed to  explore  every  subject — to  analyse 
and  take  it  apart — ascertain  and  define  its  ele- 
mentary principles,  and  all  its  dependencies  and 
relations,  and  label  the  whole  with  letters  of  fire, 
and  put  it  together  again;  then  he  will  under- 
stand it — then  he  will  never  forget  it — and  then 
everywhere  and  instanter  it  will  be  ready  for 
use.  Now  this  can  never  be  accomplished  by 


HINTS  TO  STUDENTS. 


203 


lectures,  and  oral  instruction — from  the  simple 
consideration  that  the  act  of  receiving  knowledge, 
and  the  act  of  acquiring  it,  by  personal  efforts, 
are  entirely  different  in  respect  to  mental  exertion 
and  thorough  attainment.  In  the  one  case,  the 
mind  is  passive,  and  records  upon  the  tablets  of 
memory  only  a few  fragments  of  what  is  said, 
soon  to  be  effaced,  and  recovered  only  by  recur- 
ring to  imperfect  notes ; while  in  the  other,  the 
mind’s  best  energies  are  employed  in  unlocking 
and  dissecting  the  subject,  and  the  mind’s  own 
eyesight  in  inspecting  it,  and  there  results  the 
mind’s  accurate  and  imperishable  knowledge  of 
it.  I do  not  mean  that  lectures  are  useless,  or  to 
be  dispensed  with ; but  they  are  to  be  only  the 
important  aids  of  original  investigation.  The 
young  adventurer  must  have  some  stock  in  trade 
to  begin  with — some  raw  material  for  his  mind 
to  work  upon ; — and  on  some  plain  subjects  per- 
haps he  has  it.  Let  him  experiment  then  first 
on  the  most  familiar  subject.  Let  him  reconnoi- 
tre his  own  mind,  and  ascertain  how  much  and 
what  he  knows,  exactly,  on  the  subject,  and  put  it 
down  in  definite  memoranda ; and  if  they  are  the 
elementary  points,  it  will  be  easy  by  their  light 
to  follow  out  their  relations  and  dependencies, 
from  centre  to  circumference ; and  if  they  are 
remote  inferences  and  relations,  it  will  be  easy  to 
follow  them  up  till  they  disclose  the  elementary 
principle  of  which  they  are  the  satellites.  When 
this  has  been  done,  and  all  that  his  own  ingenuity 


204 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


can  disclose  is  found  out,  he  may  consult  authors, 
and  enlarge  and  connect  his  views  by  their  aid. 
When  called  to  investigate  subjects  which  are 
beyond  the  sphere  of  his  incipient  knowledge, 
conversation  and  lectures  may  open  the  door  of 
the  temple,  and  put  in  the  hand  of  the  young 
adventurer  the  golden  thread  which  may  lead 
him  out  of  darkness  into  open  day.  The  advan- 
tages of  this  personal  and  primary  investigation 
of  subjects  are,  the  augmentation  of  mental  vigor 
and  acute  discrimination,  the  pleasures  of  mental 
action  and  discovery,  the  confidence  of  knowledge, 
dexterity  in  its  application,  and  that  originality 
of  manner  which  imparts  freshness,  and  variety, 
and  undying  interest,  to  oft-repeated  truths,  and 
protracted  health  of  mind,  and  vigorous  intel- 
lectual action.  Especially,  it  is  the  remedy  of 
college  indolence  and  all  mental  sloth,  protracted 
through  life,  and  the  guaranty  of  diligence,  and 
mental  action,  and  acquisition,  down  to  the  very 
frost  of  age.  Mind  which  has  opened  the  foun- 
tains of  knowledge  will  thirst  and  drink,  and 
thirst  and  drink  forever.  It  is  discipline  which 
doubles  its  capacity,  the  economy  of  time,  the 
energy  of  application,  the  amount  of  acquisition, 
and  the  duration  of  active  usefulness,  and  the 
amount  of  it.  Few  minds  uninitiated  in  the 
habit  of  investigation  pass,  without  faltering,  the 
meridian  of  life,  or  move  on  after  it,  but  in  the 
common-place  repetition  of  common-place  ideas  ; 
while  to  minds  exercised  by  reason  of  use  to  ana- 


HINTS  TO  STUDENTS. 


205 


lyze,  and  decompose,  and  reconstruct  the  elemen- 
tary order  of  things,  the  work  is  ever  interesting, 
ever  new;  and  the  product  ever  fresh,  original, 
and  bright  as  the  luminaries  of  heaven. 

The  results  of  such  training  will  be  eloquence 
in  the  pulpit,  eloquence  at  the  bar,  and  eloquence 
in  the  halls  of  legislation ; such  as  none  can 
sleep  under  nor  resist,  and  whose  victories,  when 
achieved,  will,  like  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  leave 
the  world  in  a blaze. 

On  the  art  of  speaking  in  conversation,  and  by 
oral  instruction,  and  public  lectures,  sermons  and 
speeches  in  deliberative  bodies,  I shall  only  say, 
that  by  a popular  and  powerful  mode  of  speak- 
ing, a marffs  success  is  sure,  whose  mental  train- 
ing has  corresponded  with  the  preceding  course; 
while,  for  the  want  of  it,  multitudes  of  minds  of 
vigor  and  good  training,  with  refined  taste  and 
copious  stores  of  knowledge,  have  passed  through 
life  but  little  appreciated,  and  exerting  on  society 
but  a feeble  power.  For  what  is  the  science  of 
war,  and  what  are  all  its  implements  and  mu- 
nitions, without  fire,  and  the  power  of  striking 
home?  There  is  nothing  by  which  the  power  of 
mind  on  mind  is  so  augmented,  as  by  the  exer- 
cise of  a native,  powerful,  popular,  argumenta- 
tive eloquence ; and  no  defect  in  public  training, 
by  which  so  much  capacity  of  usefulness  is  neu- 
tralized and  lost,  as  by  unskilful  and  inefficient 
speaking.  There  must  be  a power  of  presenta- 
18 


206 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


tion — or  good  sense,  and  vigor,  and  well-balanced 
minds,  and  precision  of  thoughts  on  the  page, 
and  accurate  definition,  and  full  proportions  of 
knowledge,  and  condensation,  and  taste,  and 
beauty,  and  the  battery  of  logic,  and  the  electric 
fire  of  metaphors,  will  all  be  a dumb  show  in  the 
popular  collision  of  mind  with  mind. 

Popular,  powerful,  efficacious  elocution  is  the 
result  of  the  best  order  of  mind,  with  all  sorts  of 
the  best  training.  There  must  be  mental  vigor, 
and  power,  and  precision  of  thought,  and  com- 
prehensive knowledge  of  men  and  of  things,  and 
condensation,  and  taste,  and  beauty,  and  power; 
and  then  a subject,  and  an  object,  and  a soul  on 
fire,  in  high  and  arduous  effort  to  accomplish  an 
end. 

What  produced  the  immortal  eloquence  of  De- 
mosthenes? A mind  which  heaven  created;  the 
culture  of  it  by  his  own  efforts;  the  stimulus  of 
a popular  government,  and  the  provocations  of 
Philip  of  Macedon. 

Instruction  may  obviate  faults,  and  frame  into 
order  the  excess  of  exuberant  feeling;  but  you 
may  as  well  teach  artificial  breathing  as  artificial 
eloquence.  Teach  men  how  to  think,  and  how 
to  feel,  and,  with  good  linguistic  culture,  you 
cannot  prevent  their  being  eloquent.  As  well 
stop  thunder-storms  and  volcanoes,  as  the  elec- 
tric burstings-out  of  soul  with  fervid,  overflowing 
energy. 


HINTS  TO  STUDENTS. 


207 


Oh ! if  Mind  has  waked  up,  and  broke  her 
fetters,  as  they  say,  I hope  she  has  got  her  blood 
warm,  and  her  mouth  open,  her  tongue  loose, 
and  nature  herself  speaking,  with  her  own  tones, 
look  and  gesture,  instead  of  the  miserable  imita- 
tions of  art.  Let  the  head  be  furnished,  and  the 
tongue  be  endowed  with  stores  of  language,  and 
the  soul  filled  with  high  patriotic  and  religious 
feeling;  and  when  the  occasion  comes  demand- 
ing eloquence,  it  will  be  there ; and  men  will  not 
need  a looking-glass  to  practise  before ; but  the 
soul  will  take  possession  of  the  body,  and  inspire 
intonation,  and  look,  and  gesture ; and  nature  will 
be  justified  of  her  children. 


SEASONS  OF  PRAYER. 


By  Henry  Ware,  Jr. 


To  prayer,  to  prayer  ! for  the  morning  breaks, 

And  earth  in  her  Maker’s  smile  awakes. 

His  light  is  on  all  below  and  above, 

The  light  of  gladness  and  life  and  love. 

Oh ! then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 

Send  upward  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer  ! for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone, 

And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 

Like  a curtain  from  God’s  kind  hand  it  flows, 

To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 

Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 

And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of  night. 

To  prayer ! for  the  day  that  God  has  blest 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 

It  speaks  of  creation’s  early  bloom  ; 

It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 

Then  summon  the  spirit’s  exalted  powers, 

And  devote  to  heaven  the  hallowed  hours. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother’s  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 


SEASONS  OF  PRAYER. 


209 


O hour  of  bliss  ! when  the  heart  o’erflows 
With  rapture  a mother  only  knows. 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  its  precious  care. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell, 

As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell  ! 

Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 

And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner’s  side, 

And  pray  for  his  soul  through  Him  who  died. 

Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow : 

Oh ! what  are  earth  and  its  pleasures  now  ? 

And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair, 

But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  ? 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye  as  it  upward  bends; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm  confiding  air ; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  God’s,  his  last  words  prayer. 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier ! 

A voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 

It  commends  the  spirit  to  God  who  gave ; 

It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold  dark  grave  ; 

It  points  to  the  glory  where  he  shall  reign, 

Who  whispered  “ Thy  brother  shall  rise  again.” 

18* 


210 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss  ! 

But  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this  : 

The  ransomed  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shadows  the  soul  as  they  sing 
But  a sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise, 

And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 

Awake,  awake,  and  gird  up  thy  strength, 

To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 

To  Him,  who  unceasing  love  displays, 

Whom  the  powers  of  nature  unceasingly  praise, 
To  him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given ; 

For  a life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


By  Geo.  S.  Hillard. 


The  trials  of  an  habitual  invalid  are  neither  few 
nor  small.  The  constant  struggle  between  the 
flesh  and  the  spirit,  is,  in  the  highest  degree, 
exhausting  to  both.  The  feeling  of  languor, 
which  nothing  but  the  spur  of  duty  can  make  us 
overcome;  the  nervous  weakness  and  timidity, 
which  make  us  shrink  from  all  care  and  respon- 
sibility; the  dreariness  of  being  old  before  our 
time,  and  of  having  lost  that  electric  vigor  in  the 
blood,  which  gives  such  “ splendor  to  the  grass, 
such  glory  to  the  flower  ” — all  these  are  hard  to 
bear — much  more  so  than  occasional  fits  of  se- 
vere illness,  or  paroxysms  of  violent  pain;  not 
merely  because  the  former  are  constant,  and  the 
latter  transient,  but  because  there  is  an  heroic 
satisfaction  in  enduring  the  one,  which  is  denied 
to  us  in  the  other — an  active  courage  is  displayed, 
which  is  a more  common  quality  than  passive 
fortitude.  In  the  invalid’s  cup,  the  wine  of  life 
never  sparkles,  however  fine  may  be  its  flavor. 
His  bosom’s  lord  sits  heavy  on  his  throne.  He 
has  none  of  that  enjoyment  arising  from  the  mere 


212 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


sense  of  being  alive,  which  seems  common  to  all 
animated  nature,  which  the  bird  expresses  by  its 
song,  and  the  beast  by  his  gambols.  Besides  all 
these  trials  which  begin  and  end  with  our  own 
person,  if  a man  have  any  benevolent  or  philan- 
thropic feelings,  he  will  suffer  the  keenest  anguish 
from  the  consciousness  of  a prostrating  weakness, 
which,  like  an  invisible  enemy,  creeps  through 
his  veins  and  drinks  the  life-blood  from  his  heart. 
He  is  doomed  to  form  plans  and  wishes,  which 
live  and  die  in  the  silence  of  his  own  breast, 
because  his  muscles  are  weak,  and  his  nerves 
unstrung.  Opportunities  of  doing  good  to  himself 
and  others,  of  creating  an  honorable  reputation, 
crowd  thick  around  him,  but  he  cannot  stretch 
out  his  arms  to  grasp  them.  He  is  a drone  in 
the  hive  of  life — a stranded  bark,  rotting  in  the 
sun  and  wind,  while  others  are  dancing  on  the 
blue  waves,  exulting  on  their  foamy  path.  He 
hears  the  trumpet  sound,  and  the  busy  hum  of 
preparation,  but  he  cannot  arise  and  arm  for  the 
battle.  While  others  are  hurrying  to  and  fro 
through  life  on  their  various  errands,  he  alone  is 
doomed  to  “ stand  and  wait.”  1 know  of  no 
spectacle  that  more  deserves  the  sympathy  of 
men  and  angels,  than  that  of  a human  being, 
whose  mind  teems  with  noble  schemes  for  making 
others  wiser  and  better,  and  whose  heart  is  over- 
flowing with  benevolent  affections,  yet  doomed  to 
inactivity,  and  constantly  compelled  to  think  of 
himself  by  the  sharp  enforcement  of  physical 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


213 


pain  or  the  nervous  despondence  and  inability 
produced  by  bodily  weakness.  The  world  is  full 
of  moral  heroes  and  martyrs,  for  whom  laurels 
are  blooming  in  heaven — men  who  are  constantly 
defeated,  but  never  conquered,  and  who  can  bear 
without  a murmur  the  lot  which  condemns  them 
to  the  rust  of  repose  and  the  blackness  of  despair. 

This  is  not  all.  Men,  let  poets  and  dyspeptics 
say  what  they  please,  are  a charitable  and  sym- 
pathizing race.  The  sight  of  suffering  creates  a 
wish  to  relieve  it.  Every  one  who  sees  a sick 
man,  feels  a desire  to  add  to  his  comforts,  to  give 
him  his  sympathy,  if  nothing  else,  and  to  learn 
whether  he  is  growing  better  or  worse.  Kind 
people  are  perpetually  inquiring  after  the  health 
of  those  who  are  sometimes  sick,  suggesting 
remedies,  giving  advice,  rebuking  imprudences, 
and  constantly  leading,  or  rather  dragging,  their 
thoughts  into  the  very  direction  which  it  is  their 
interest  and  their  wish  to  avoid.  A man  who 
always  broods  over  the  idea  that  he  is  sick,  will 
always  be  sick.  The  great  thing  to  be  gained 
with  respect  to  the  system,  is,  that  we  should  be 
unconscious  of  its  existence.  Now  who  can  for- 
get this,  that  is  perpetually  reminded  of  it,  by  the 
u infernal  politeness”  of  his  friends? 

No  one  can  tell  how  much  I suffer  from  well- 
meant  but  most  injudicious  attentions  of  this  kind. 
I have  long  and  frequent  intervals  of  brilliant 
health,  but  they  are  poisoned  by  my  being  inces- 
santly put  in  mind  that  I have  been  sick  once 


214 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


and  may  be  again.  People  talk  with  one  who 
has  the  reputation  of  being  an  invalid,  about  his 
health,  as  they  do  with  others  about  the  weather, 
or  the  news.  How  many  times  a day  am  I 
doomed  to  hear  the  question,  How  do  you  do  to- 
day? with  a strong  emphasis  on  the  last  word; 
How  is  your  health?  Is  your  appetite  good? 
Do  you  sleep  well  at  night?  Do  you  take  exer- 
cise enough? but  I will  be  more  merciful  to 

my  readers,  than  my  friends  are  to  me. 

A little  while  ago  I w^as  attacked  with  a slight 
cold  which  confined  me  to  my  room  for  two  days, 
and  I had  the  curiosity  to  note  down  the  events 
which  occurred  to  me,  as  soon  as  I was  well 
enough  to  resume  my  usual  duties;  and  I submit 
it  to  any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  read 
them,  whether  my  health  be  not  as  hard  to  bear 
as  my  sickness. 

I board  with  a lady,  whom  I choose  to  call 
Mrs.  Henderson,  who  is  more  remarkable  for 
good  feeling  than  good  sense,  and  is  truly  desirous 
of  saying  and  doing  all  that  is  most  agreeable  to 
the  inmates  of  her  house;  and  having  very  little 
fertility  of  genius,  she  finds  it  the  easiest  way  of 
entertaining  me,  to  talk  to  me  about  my  symp- 
toms, and  to  inquire,  at  least  once  a day,  into  the 
state  of  all  the  organs  in  my  body. 

My  fellow-boarders  are  a gentleman  and  lady, 
each  peculiar  in  their  way.  Miss  Patience  Crack- 
bone  was  younger  once  than  she  is  now,  and  I 
hope  and  trust,  prettier.  She  is  a woman  who 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


215 


would  like  to  live  in  a hospital,  in  the  midst  of 
the  dying  and  the  dead,  not  from  the  benevolence 
of  her  heart  and  her  wish  to  lessen  human 
misery,  but  because  in  such  a situation  she  would 
find  the  most  pleasant  excitement  to  her  mind. 
Her  conversation  is,  to  healthy  talk,  what  calomel 
and  jalap  are  to  bread  and  wine.  When  she 
takes  up  the  paper,  she  first  looks  at  the  deaths, 
and  I can  observe  a shade  of  disappointment 
upon  her  face,  if  none  of  her  own  acquaintances 
are  of  the  number.  She  is  never  so  happy,  as 
when  some  of  her  friends  are  dangerously  sick, 
that  she  may  have  an  opportunity  of  going  once 
a day,  and  fussing  about  the  house,  peeping  into 
the  vials,  and  tasting  the  contents  with  the  know- 
ing smack  of  a connoisseur;  catching  the  doctor 
by  the  button-hole  as  he  comes  down  stairs, 
inquiring,  with  a most  dolorous  expression,  after 
the  patient’s  health,  and  then  putting  on  her 
bonnet  and  hurrying  away,  a live  bulletin,  to 
make  proclamation  through  all  the  city.  She  has 
the  latest  edition  of  Buchan’s  Domestic  Medicine, 
which  bears  the  marks  of  constant  reading,  and 
a book  of  manuscript  recipes,  bound  in  rhubarb- 
colored  leather,  (how  often  in  my  dreams  have  I 
seen  it!)  any  one  of  which  would  be  enough  to 
give  his  quietus  to  a grizzly  bear.  She  was  made 
quite  unhappy  for  a long  time,  by  her  own  obsti- 
nate good  health,  but  she  has  contrived,  at  last, 
to  worry  herself  into  the  dyspepsia,  and  is  now 
entirely  content. 


216 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Mr.  (Gilbert  Grimstone  may  be  described  in  a 
few  words.  He  is  a bachelor,  very  selfish  and 
very  cross — something  of  a humorist  withal,  and, 
having  made  his  own  fortune,  feels  himself  at 
liberty  to  do  and  say  as  many  disagreeable  things 
as  he  pleases.  He  has  nerves  like  whip-lashes, 
skin  like  leather,  and  muscles  like  India-rubber. 
He  believes  that  the  sick  are  made  so  by  their 
own  fault,  and  he  would  hang  every  invalid  in 
the  country,  if  he  had  the  power. 

On  my  appearance  at  the  breakfast  table,  1 
found  the  family  all  assembled.  Mrs.  Henderson 
inquired  with  a most  doleful  voice  and  look  after 
my  health; — “I  heard  you  cough  last  night,  Mr. 

D , and  I was  afraid  you  would  not  be  down 

this  morning.”  “ Mr.  D is  looking  very  pale 

and  languid  this  morning,”  said  Miss  Crackbone. 
“ I lost  a young  friend  last  year  that  had  just  that 
bluish  look  under  the  eyes  that  you  have.”  “ I 
am  afraid  we  have  nothing  on  the  table  that  you 
can  eat  this  morning,”  continued  Mrs.  Hender- 
son; “ would  not  you  like  to  have  a little  arrow- 
root  made  ? ” 1 assured  her  that  I intended  to 

do  ample  justice  to  all  her  good  things,  and 
begged  her  to  send  me  a cup  of  coffee.  “You 
had  better  not  touch  that  baker’s  bread,”  said 
Miss  Patience — “ I am  sure  it  will  sour  on  your 
stomach ; it  always  does  on  mine : try  some  of 

this,  which  is  made  exactly  after  Ur.  ’s 

directions,”  extending  to  me  a black  loaf,  at 
which  a Spartan  would  have  made  wry  faces. 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


217 


“Mr.  D never  will  be  well/’  growled  Mr. 

Grimstone,  Avho  was  crumbling  a loaf  of  bread 
into  a huge  bowl  of  boiled  milk,  “ as  long  as  he 
drinks  tea  and  coffee;  I consider  them  as  rank 
poison,  for  my  part.  When  I was  a young  man, 
nobody  ever  thought  of  being  sick — we  did  not 
have  stomachs  and  nerves  in  those  days.75  “ 1 

wish  Mr.  D would  let  me  make  him  some 

flax-seed  tea,77  said  Miss  Patience.  “I  don’t 
think  there  is  anything  better  for  a cold  on  the 
lungs.  Have  you  ever  raised  blood  ? 77  she  con- 
tinued, turning  to  me.  “ I think,77  said  Mrs. 
Henderson,  “he  ought  to  wear  flannel  next  his 
skin,  all  the  year  round.77  “ Fudge  ! 77  said  Mr. 
Grimstone,  “no  need  of  flannel;  I never  wear 
flannel ; young  men  are  so  effeminate  and  luxu- 
rious now-a-days,  no  wonder  they  are  sick  all  the 
time.  I believe  by  the  next  generation  a good, 
strong,  able-bodied  man  will  be  carried  about  and 
shown  for  a sight.  When  I was  of  your  age,  Mr. 

D , I was  up  at  four  o’clock  in  the  morning, 

hoeing  potatoes  ; and  I believe  it  would  do  you 
good  if  you  had  the  same  to  do.77  “You  don’t 
eat  anything  this  morning,”  said  Mrs.  Henderson. 
“I  expect  your  stomach  wants  bracing;  I think 
the  quinine  would  do  you  good.”  “Or  a wine- 
glass full  of  camomile  and  quassia,  taken  three 
times  a day,”  interrupted  Miss  Patience;  “it  is 
excellent  for  wind  in  the  chest.  And  that  reminds 
me  of  poor  Mrs.  Hapgood ; — I went  to  see  her 
19 


218 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


yesterday — you  can  ’t  think  what  she  suffers;  she 
has  such  a stricture  across  her  breast,  that  it 
seems  as  if  she  would  die  every  breath  she 
draws.  And  then  her  stomach  is  so  weak  that 
she  can ’t  keep  anything  down  a single  minute. 
I am  afraid  she  can ’t  live — and  then  only  think 
of  her  leaving  all  those  little  children,  and  a 
baby  only  six  months  old  ! ” Fortunately  at  this 
moment  the  papers  came  in,  full  of  details  of  the 
cholera,  and  I was  allowed  to  finish  my  meal  in 
peace. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  I encountered  several 
of  my  acquaintances,  old  and  young,  male  and 
female,  from  all  of  whom  I met  with  more  or 
less  annoyance,  either  in  the  form  of  tedious 
inquiry,  or  still  more  tedious  advice.  One  person 
reproved  me  for  not  wearing  India-rubber  shoes; 
and  another,  for  not  having  on  an  outside  gar- 
ment. A deaf  old  lady  kept  me  ten  minutes  in 
the  open  street,  roaring  into  her  ears  the  assur- 
ance that  I was  perfectly  well,  but  very  busy.  I 
was  recommended  to  go  to  Europe,  by  a gentle- 
man who  knew  that  I was  never  ten  dollars 
ahead  of  my  debts  in  my  life;  and  by  another, 
to  take  daily  rides  on  horseback — as  if  a horse 
were  as  invariable  and  indispensable  an  appen- 
dage to  a man,  as  a pocket-handkerchief.  By 
one,  I was  told  that  I was  looking  wretchedly ; 
by  another,  that  I never  looked  better  in  my  life; 
*nd  what,  in  all  this,  was  most  intolerable,  was, 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


219 


that  I felt  assured  that  nine  out  of  ten  of  these 
people  did  not  care  a straw  about  me,  but  talked 
to  me  about  my  health,  as  they  would  to  the  gen- 
erality of  men  about  the  weather  or  the  news — 
because  they  must  say  something,  and  had  noth- 
ing to  say.  It  is  hard  to  be  so  badgered , without 
even  the  consciousness  of  sympathy  to  support 
you  under  the  trial. 

But  I had  not  yet  been  through  the  worst.  I 
had  an  engagement  of  some  standing,  to  drink 
tea  with  Mrs.  Marchmont,  a lady  who,  having 
an  easy  fortune,  a healthy  and  an  indulgent 
husband,  no  children,  and  the  most  benevolent 
affections,  employs  her  time  and  energies  in  being 
the  comforter,  and  often  the  nurse,  of  all  the  sick 
people  among  her  very  extensive  acquaintance. 
She  is  never  so  happy  as  in  the  society  of  habitual 
invalids,  attempting  to  animate  their  spirits,  and 
giving  them  the  best  of  advice ; but  having  been 
always  in  good  health  herself,  her  success  is  not 
often  so  great  as  her  intentions  are  good.  On 
my  entrance  into  the  drawing-room,  I found  about 
a dozen  persons  assembled,  most  of  them  females, 
and  none  of  them  uncomfortably  young.  I had 
a presentiment  that  Fate  had  some  arrows  yet  in 
store  for  me,  and  I presume  my  face  expressed  it; 
for  Mrs.  Marchmont,  while  welcoming  me  in  the 
most  cordial  manner,  remarked— “ You  don’t 

look  so  well  as  I hoped  and  expected,  Mr.  D ; 

I am  afraid  you  have  not  recovered.”  “ Why,  I 


220 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


was  thinking  Mr.  D looked  a great  deal 

better  than  he  did  last  spring/7  said  a thin,  sharp 
voice,  belonging  to  Miss  Thorough  wort,  an  an- 
cient maiden  from  the  country.  “I’m  sure  I 
thought  at  that  time,  he  would  have  been  under 

the  sods  before  now.”  “I  am  afraid  Mr.  D 

studies  too  much,”  said  Mrs.  Balsamine,  a ven- 
erable widow,  who  sat  knitting  in  a comer,  and 
looking  at  me  over  the  glasses  of  her  spectacles. 
“ I think  it ’s  a great  pity  there  are  so  many  books 
in  the  world.”  The  attention  of  the  room  being 
thus  drawn  to  me,  I endeavored  to  escape  from  it 
by  slipping  into  the  nearest  open  chair.  From  this 
I was  immediately  dislodged  by  my  watchful 
hostess,  who  warned  me  that  there  was  a window 
at  my  back,  and  pressed  me  to  take  a rocking- 
chair,  which  a kind  lady  had  just  vacated  for  me. 
Of  course  I refused — she  insisted,  and  two  or 
three  most  embarrassing  minutes  were  passed  in 
urgent  solicitations  and  vigorous  denials,  which 
were  ended  by  my  taking  possession  of  the  chair, 
— which  I should  have  done,  if  the  cushion  had 
been  stuffed  with  thistles. 

Soon  afterwards,  the  tea-equipage  was  brought 
in.  As  I was  extending  my  arm  to  the  waiter, 
it  was  arrested  by  Mrs.  Marchmont,  who  told  me 
that  the  tea  was  green,  and  very  bad  for  my  com- 
plaints, and  that  if  I would  wait  a few  minutes, 
she  would  have  some  black  made  for  me.  I com- 
forted myself  for  my  disappointment  with  an 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


221 


ample  slice  of  bread  and  butter.  As  I was  dis- 
cussing this  with  great  relish,  a lady,  whom  I 
had  never  seen  before,  and  whose  name  I did  not 
know,  addressed  me  from  the  other  side  of  the 
room — “Are  your  complaints  consumptive,  Mr. 

D ?”  “Very  much  so,  just  now,”  I replied. 

“ Then  let  me  recommend  to  you  to  drink  flax- 
seed tea  twice  a day,  and  whenever  you  feel  a 
soreness  on  your  lungs,  apply  a blister  of  hog’s 
fat  and  tartar-emetic.”  “I  should  rather  think 
from  his  looks  that  his  bilious  system  was  dis- 
ordered,” said  Mrs.  Thoroughwort.  “Oh!  he 
suffers  from  general  debility,”  said  Mrs.  March- 
mont ; “he  lets  things  worry  him  when  they 
ought  not  to.”  “ White  mustard-seed  is  very 
good  for  almost  all  kinds  of  sickness,”  said  Mrs. 
Balsamine.  “ My  husband  used  to  take  a great 
deal  of  it.”  “ For  my  part,  I have  great  faith  in 
cold  water,”  said  Miss  Thoroughwort;  (no  one 
would  have  suspected  it  from  her  appearance;) 
“I  think  it  would  do  you  good  to  take  a shower- 
bath  every  morning,  and  to  have  a tub  of  cold 
water  standing  at  your  bed-side,  and  dip  your  feet 
in  it  when  you  first  get  up.”  “ And  rub  yourself 
with  a stiff  flesh-brush  till  you  are  all  in  a glow,” 
said  the  advocate  of  flax-seed  tea. 

The  conversation  now  became  general,  and, 
without  being  able  to  point  out  each  individual’s 
share,  I will  merely  write  down  the  expressions 
as  they  came  to  my  ears.  “ Drink  copiously  of 
19* 


222 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


valerian  tea;  take  a Rochelle  powder  before 
breakfast;  walk  five  miles  every  day;  chew 
ginseng  root;  soak  your  feet  in  hot  water,  with  a 
handful  of  mustard  thrown  into  it;  take  a dose 
of  magnesia;  take  a dose  of  rhubarb;  wear  a 
deer-skin  waistcoat  over  your  flannels  ; drink 
Congress  water;  don’t  study  by  candle-light; 
indigestion — catnip  tea ; pain  in  the  side ; good 
for  a cough,”  &c.  &c. 

Thus  was  I tortured  with  well-meant  kindness. 
However,  at  last,  they  ceased  talking  about  me, 
and  I was  in  hopes  to  have  enjoyed  some  pleasant 
conversation,  but  I was  mistaken.  The  all- 
engrossing  subject  of  the  cholera  was  brought  up, 
and  occupied  them  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The 
various  stages  of  the  disease  were  described,  and 
the  symptoms  commented  upon  with  a minute- 
ness and  a gout  which,  with  the  state  of  nervous 
excitement  into  which  I had  been  previously 
thrown,  drove  me  almost  distracted.  1 imagined 
myself  afflicted  with  all  the  spasms  and  convul- 
sions of  that  frightful  disorder.  I hurried  home 
before  nine  o’clock,  and  never  enjoyed,  with 
greater  zest,  the  luxury  of  solitude. 

My  imagination  had  been  so  wrought  upon  by 
the  scenes  I had  been  through,  that  my  very 
dreams  were  infected  by  them.  All  nature 
seemed  to  suffer  an  apothecary  change.  The 
glorious  sun  in  heaven  was  turned  into  a Bur- 
gundy pitch-plaster ; the  moon  into  a bread-poul- 


MISERIES  OF  AN  INVALID. 


223 


tice ; and  the  host  of  the  stars  became  blue  pills. 
The  flowers  had  all  a medicinal  smell,  and 
labelled  vials  hung  from  the  trees  instead  of  fruit. 
I floated  down  rivers  of  camomile  tea,  in  a 
bark  of  slippery  elm.  I opened  a letter  from  a 
dear  friend,  and  lo ! it  was  filled  with  doctors’ 
prescriptions.  I stretched  out  my  hand  to  grasp 
that  of  an  acquaintance,  and  it  was  turned  into  a 
flesh-brush.  The  heavens  drenched  me  with 
showers  of  tincture  of  rhubarb,  and  pelted  me 
with  Tolu  lozenges ; and  I awoke  in  a cold 
sweat,  with  the  agony  of  the  nightmare,  which 
brooded  over  me  in  the  shape  of  a huge  mortar 
and  pestle.  So  much  for  being  an  invalid  ! 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


By  N.  P.  Willis. 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

On  ocean — many  a weary  night — 
When  heaved  the  long  and  sullen  sea, 
With  only  waves  and  stars  in  sight. 

We  stole  along  by  isles  of  balm, 

We  furled  before  the  coming  gale, 

We  slept  amid  the  breathless  calm, 

We  flew  beneath  the  straining  sail — 
But  thou  wert  lost  for  years  to  me, 

And,  day  and  night,  I thought  of  thee  ! 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  France — amid  the  gay  saloon, 

Where  eyes  as  dark  as  eyes  may  be 
Are  many  as  the  leaves  in  June — 
Where  life  is  love,  and  even  the  air 
Is  pregnant  with  impassioned  thought, 
And  song  and  dance  and  music  are 

With  one  warm  meaning  only  fraught — 
My  half-snared  heart  broke  lightly  free, 
And,  with  a blush,  I thought  of  thee  ! 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


225 


I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  Florence — where  the  fiery  hearts 
Of  Italy  are  breathed  away 

In  wonders  of  the  deathless  arts  ; 

Where  strays  the  Contadina  down 
Val  d’Arno  with  a song  of  old; 

Where  clime  and  woman  seldom  frown, 

And  life  runs  over  sands  of  gold  ; 

I strayed  to  lone  Fiesole 

On  many  an  eve,  and  thought  of  thee. 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  Rome — when  on  the  Palatine 
Night  left  the  Csssar’s  palace  free 
To  Time’s  forgetful  foot  and  mine; 

Or,  on  the  Coliseum’s  wall, 

When  moonlight  touched  the  ivied  stone, 
Reclining,  with  a thought  of  all 

That  o’er  this  scene  has  come  and  gone — 
The  shades  of  Rome  would  start  and  flee 
Unconsciously — I thought  of  thee. 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  Vallombrosa’s  holy  shade, 

Where  nobles  born  the  friars  be, 

By  life’s  rude  changes  humbler  made. 
Here  Milton  framed  his  Paradise ; 

I slept  within  his  very  cell ; 

And  as  I closed  my  weary  eyes, 

I thought  the  cowl  would  fit  me  well — 
The  cloisters  breathed,  it  seemed  to  me, 

Of  heart’s-ease — but  I thought  of  thee. 


226 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  Venice — on  a night  in  June, 

When  through  the  city  of  the  sea, 

Like  dust  of  silver  slept  the  moon. 

Slow  turned  his  oar  the  gondolier, 

And,  as  the  black  barks  glided  by, 

The  water  to  my  leaning  ear 

Bore  back  the  lover’s  passing  sigh ; 

It  was  no  place  alone  to  be — 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee. 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  the  Ionian  Isles — when  straying 
With  wise  Ulysses  by  the  sea — 

Old  Homer’s  songs  around  me  playing; 
Or,  watching  the  bewitched  caique, 

That  o’er  the  star-lit  waters  flew, 

I listened  to  the  helmsman  Greek, 

Who  sung  the  song  that  Sappho  knew — 
The  poet’s  spell,  the  bark,  the  sea, 

All  vanished — as  I thought  of  thee. 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  Greece — when  rose  the  Parthenon 
Majestic  o’er  the  Egean  sea, 

And  heroes  with  it,  one  by  one  ; 

When,  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 

Where  Lais  and  Leonti um  strayed 
Discussing  Plato’s  mystic  theme, 

I lay  at  noontide  in  the  shade ; 

The  Egean  wind,  the  whispering  tree, 

Had  voices — and  I thought  of  thee. 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


227 


I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

In  Asia — on  the  Dardanelles  ; 

Where,  swiftly  as  the  waters  flee, 

Each  wave  some  sweet  old  story  tells ; 
And  seated  by  the  marble  tank 
Which  sleeps  by  Ilium’s  ruins  old, 

(The  fount  where  peerless  Helen  drank, 
And  Venus  laved  her  locks  of  gold,) 

I thrilled  such  classic  haunts  to  see — 

Yet  even  here,  I thought  of  thee. 

I thought  of  thee — I thought  of  thee, 

Where  glide  the  Bosphor’s  lovely  waters, 
All  palace-lined,  from  sea  to  sea  ; 

And  ever  on  its  shores  the  daughters 
Of  the  delicious  East  are  seen, 

Printing  the  brink  with  slippered  feet, 
And  oh,  those  snowy  folds  between, 

What  eyes  of  heaven  your  glances  meet ! 
Peris  of  light  no  fairer  be — 

Yet — in  Stamboul — I thought  of  thee. 

I ’ve  thought  of  thee — I ’ve  thought  of  thee, 
Through  change  that  teaches  to  forget ; 
Thy  face  looks  up  from  every  sea, 

In  every  star  thine  eyes  are  set ; 

Though  roving  beneath  Orient  skies, 
Whose  golden  beauty  breathes  of  rest, 

I envy  every  bird  that  flies 

Into  the  far  and  clouded  West : 

I think  of  thee — I think  of  thee  ! 

Oh,  dearest ! hast  thou  thought  of  me  ? 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 


By  Samuel  Kettel. 


“ Here  shall  we  rest, — here  find  our  last  abode; 
this  grove,  now  fresh  and  smiling  with  summer’s 
cheerful  verdure,  and  gay  with  the  harmony  of  a 
thousand  warblers,  shall  become  the  silent  man- 
sion of  the  dead.”  Thus  said  I,  as  I took  my  walk 
to  the  site  of  the  new  cemetery.  “ 7T  is  well ; — 
here,  in  the  seclusion  of  these  calm  precincts, 
have  I passed  many  a meditative  hour;  here 
have  I held  converse  with  Nature,  and  sought 
and  found  a kind  companionship  with  her  un- 
sophisticated offspring ; the  lofty  oak  and  the 
humble  cedar  of  this  favorite  spot  have  been  to 
me  sweeter  companions  than  men.  ’Tis  well 
this  lap  of  earth  should  prepare  itself  for  my  last 
slumbers.  One  of  these  deep  glens  or  sunny 
banks  shall  surely  receive  me  in  its  bosom;  and 
the  gentle  breeze,  which  I so  oft  have  wooed  upon 
these  hill-tops,  shall  sigh  my  requiem  among  the 
quivering  leaves.” 

A lofty  hill  rises  on  the  skirt  of  the  wood, 
“ whose  hairy  sides,  grotesque  and  wild,”  are 
clad  with  tall  trees  and  thick  shrubbery,  save 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 


229 


toward  the  east,  where  a pathway  leads  to  the 
summit, 

Which  shows  a distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities  now  in  vain  displayed, 

For  they  can  lure  no  farther  j and  the  ray 
Of  a bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 

I ascended  this  eminence,  and  threw  myself  in 
pensive  mood  at  the  foot  of  an  ancient  oak.  It 
was  a bright  and  serene  afternoon,  and  a spot 
untrodden,  except  by  the  casual  wanderer;  a few 
white  clouds  were  sailing  with  a motion  scarce 
perceptible  through  the  air  ; the  winding  stream 
of  the  Charles  glided  lazily  at  my  feet,  without  a 
ripple  and  without  a sound.  All  nature  disposed 
the  mind  to  meditation;  nothing  broke  the  lone 
stillness  of  the  scene,  save  the  low  and  fitful 
whisper  of  the  breeze  among  the  foliage,  or  the 
plaintive  cry  of  the  towhee  from  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  the  pines. 

With  feelings  attuned  to  pensiveness,  I threw 
myself  on  the  earth,  and  pored  upon  the  scene.  In 
a reverie  I gazed  upon  the  green  landscape  be- 
neath, sleeping  in  the  calm  sunshine  at  my  feet, 
and  fading  away  in  the  distance  into  the  soft 
blue  hills  that  skirted  the  horizon.  I turned  my 
eye  to  the  east,  where  Boston,  swelling  up  with 
her  proud  domes  and  glittering  spires,  marked 
her  noble  outline  upon  the  clear  sky;  and  a 
feeling  of  awe  came  over  me  as  I contemplated 
that  majestic  form,  lifting  its  mass  of  stately 
architecture  into  the  air  with  a commanding 
20 


230 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


grandeur,  as  if  demanding  the  gazer’s  homage  to 
the  Queen  of  the  North. 

“This,”  said  1,  “is  the  city  of  riches  and 
splendor;  there  lie  her  fleets;  there  throng  her 
thousands  of  merchants  and  tradesmen ; there 
stand  her  palaces  and  her  temples ; there  shine 
her  halls  and  saloons,  the  abodes  of  wealth  and 
the  home  of  gaiety  and  fashion  ; there  throng  her 
countless  swarms  of  busy  citizens,  those  multi- 
tudes that  roar  and  thunder  like  a mountain 
stream  within  her  limits,  but  of  whom  scarce  a 
faint  murmur  comes  to  my  ear  upon  the  passing 
breeze.  Shall  those  lordly  domes  and  ambitious 
roofs  crumble  to  dust,  and  leave  not  a wreck 
behind?  Is  that  gay  and  eager  mass,  now  teem- 
ing with  young  life  and  enjoyment,  and  1 shining 
as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb,’  nought  but  such 
stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of?  Are  they  no  more 
than  the  poor  tenants  of  a little  life  that  is  rounded 
with  a sleep  ? 

“Yes, — those  cloud-capped  towers  shall  fall ; 
those  fair  bosoms  now  burning  with  high  hope, 
those  bright  eyes  that  beam  w Ah  love,  shall  close 
in  darkness.  Man  of  wealth,  thy  princely  man- 
sion shall  forget  thy  name ! Maiden  of  the 
blooming  cheek,  to-morrow  shall  the  ring  sparkle 
and  the  hall  resound,  but  none  shall  think  of 
thee ! The  generation  too  that  cometh,  shall 
stay  but  for  a time.  The  Queen  of  the  North  shall 
bow  her  head  and  fall — and  no  city  shall  be  eter- 
nal but  the  City  of  the  Dead  ! ” 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 


231 


Filled  with  these  thoughts  I sank  into  a slum- 
ber. Methought  some  thousands  of  years  had 
passed;  and  as  their  cloudy  wings  unfolded 
before  my  eyes,  I stood  upon  the  wreck  of  the 
city.  Her  lofty  domes  had  fallen,  her  solid 
pillars  were  broken  and  buried  in  dust,  the  voice 
of  man  was  silent  among  her  shattered  arches, 
noisome  weeds  choked  the  pathway  among  her 
crumbling  walls,  the  dull  breeze  sighed  through 
the  grass,  the  bat  and  the  owl  nestled  in  the 
gateways  of  her  palaces.  All  was  still,  lonely, 
and  desolate ; the  gay  city  had  become  a silent 
heap  of  moss-grown  ruins.  The  gale  of  desola- 
tion swept  over  her  crumbling  hills. 

While  I uttered  a sigh  over  this  sad  scene  of 
destruction,  I descried  a venerable  old  man  with 
white  hair,  leaning  his  feeble  frame  upon  a staff, 
and  poring  over  the  shapeless  fragment  of  a 
column.  He  seemed  a figure  designed  to  per- 
sonate the  decay  which  spread  around  him. 
His  thin  locks  shook  in  the  breeze  as  I ap- 
proached, and  he  turned  his  dull  eye  upon  me, 
while  I demanded  what  fate  had  befallen  the  city 
which  lay  in  a giant  wreck  under  our  feet.  “I 
know  nought  about  it,”  answered  he;  “but  in 
times  of  old  I have  heard  men  say,  that  once  a 
great  city  stood  here.”  “And  the  people!”  said 
I;  “what  is  remembered  of  them?”  “Nothing  at 
all,”  replied  the  old  man. 

“And  is  this  then,”  said  I,  “ the  fate  of  that 
people  and  that  generation,  so  proud,  so  mighty, 


232 


TIIE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


and  so  glorious?  Gone  are  their  heroes,  their 
statesmen,  their  philosophers,  their  orators,  and 
their  penmen ; their  memories  have  perished,  and 
their  very  names  are  forgotten ; 

Yet  wide  was  spread  their  fame  in  ages  past. 

And  poets  once  had  promised  they  should  last.” 

“A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream.” 
Another  long  flight  of  ages  swept  by.  I looked, 
and  behold  ! the  hills  had  disappeared.  The  very 
foundations  of  the  city  were  swallowed  up,  and 
nothing  remained  but  a wide  gulf  of  waters, 
choked  with  shoals  of  sand.  The  sea-birds  were 
dashing  the  waves  unmolested  over  the  sunken 
ruins,  and  the  solitary  bittern  screamed  in  the 
barren  pools  where  the  lofty  Avails  once  had 
stood.  The  green  isles  of  her  bay  were  swept 
into  the  deep ; her  grassy  shores  were  flooded  by 
the  surf  of  the  ocean ; the  white  sand  drifted  in 
the  sea-breeze  over  her  flowery  banks  ; the  hills 
around  had  crumbled  into  naked  barrenness ; the 
rocks  were  blackening  in  the  sickly  sun ; no 
sound  broke  the  awful  silence  that  reigned 
around,  except  the  cry  of  the  sea-fowl  as  he 
wheeled  over  the  waters,  or  the  hollow  moan  of 
the  ocean  driving  his  wasting  wa\res  against  the 
land.  I gazed  in  dismay  at  the  desolation.  “And 
where,”  thought  I,  “is  man?  Has  he  too  sunk 
into  destruction’s  mass?  Are  all  trace  and  remnant 
swept  away,  of  the  countless  thousands  Avho 
swarmed  within  this  wide  region?” 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 


233 


At  length,  after  looking  round  the  drear  soli- 
tude for  a long  time,  I discovered  a swarthy  sav- 
age in  his  canoe,  fishing  among  the  sand-banks. 
His  looks  were  wild  and  ferocious,  and  his  garb 
and  mien  seemed  to  display  the  last  stages  of 
expiring  civilization.  “ Where  is  the  city  that 
stood  here  ? 77  I asked.  He  turned  upon  me  a 
stupid  and  a vacant  look,  but  said  nothing.  I 
repeated  the  question ; he  answered  only  by  a 
few  barbarous  accents,  which  I found  it  impos- 
sible to  understand.  I endeavored  to  converse 
with  him  by  action,  and  made  signs  ; he  seemed 
aroused  for  a moment  from  his  torpor,  and  at- 
tempted an  expression,  but  sunk  immediately 
back  into  a dead  apathy. 

“Is  this,’7  thought  I again,  “the  posterity  of 
the  men  who  founded  the  great  empire  of  the 
West,  and  who  spread  civilization,  and  arts,  and 
intellect,  over  half  the  globe  ? Are  all  their  fame 
and  glory  and  genius  dwindled  to  this  poor 
wreck  ? Alas  ! what  secret  fatality  has  led  man- 
kind onward  from  the  beginning  of  its  career ! 
The  paths  of  glory  and  of  empire  lead  but  to 
oblivion  ! 77 

Another  flight  of  ages  passed.  I looked  once 
more,  and  the  hills  had  arisen  from  their  abysses; 
the  isles  lifted  up  their  heads  from  the  deep ; a 
thick  verdure  overspread  the  shores.  Tangled 
forests  clad  hill  and  valley,  and  the  whole  land 
was  one  great  green  wilderness,  quickened  into 
luxuriant  life  by  the  bright  sun,  as  on  the  first 
20  * 


234 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


morning  of  creation.  On  the  rim  of  the  far  blue 
ocean,  I discovered  a white  speck.  It  drew 
nearer,  and  I saw  it  was  a sail.  A ship  came  to 
the  shore,  and  men  landed.  They  felled  the 
trees,  and  began  to  build  dwellings. 

I was  about  to  utter  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
and  wonder,  when,  on  lifting  up  my  eyes,  a 
figure  stood  over  me,  which  I instantly  recog- 
nized as  the  Genius  of  the  City.  “ Mortal  ! ” he 
exclaimed  in  a solemn  voice,  “ cease  to  mourn 
over  the  destiny  of  the  human  race.  Repine  not 
at  the  decay  of  art  or  the  fall  of  empire.  For 
know  that  ruin  is  productive,  and  waste  and  dis- 
persion do  but  engender  life  in  new  forms  and 
energies.  In  the  mighty  system  of  the  universe, 
not  a step  of  the  destroyer,  Time,  but  is  made 
subservient  to  some  ulterior  purpose  of  reproduc- 
tion, and  the  circle  of  creation  and  destruction 
must  still  go  on.” 

I had  scarce  made  an  attempt  to  reply,  when  the 
Genius  disappeared.  The  whole  scene  vanished, 
and  I suddenly  awoke.  The  rays  of  the  sinking 
sun  were  gilding  the  distant  spires  of  the  city, 
and  I hastened  homeward  in  deep  thought  upon 
the  things  of  the  vision,  and  the  interpretation 
thereof. 


LEXINGTON  ODE. 


By  John  Pierpont. 


Long,  in  a nameless  grave, 

Bones  of  the  true  and  brave, 

Have  ye  reposed ! 

This  day,  our  hands  have  dressed, 
This  day,  our  prayers  have  blessed 
A chamber  for  your  rest ; 

And  now ’t  is  closed. 

Sleep  on,  ye  slaughtered  ones  ! 
Your  spirit,  in  your  sons, 

Shall  guard  your  dust, 

While  winter  comes  in  gloom, 
While  spring  returns  with  bloom, 
Nay,  till  this  honored  tomb 
Gives  up  its  trust. 

When  war’s  first  blast  was  heard, 
These  men  stood  forth  to  guard 
Thy  house,  O God  ! 

And  now,  thy  house  shall  keep 
Its  vigils  where  they  sleep, 

And  still  its  shadow  sweep 
O’er  their  green  sod. 


236 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


In  morning’s  prime  they  bled  ; 
And  morning  finds  their  bed 
With  tears  all  wet ; 

Tears  that  thy  hosts  of  light, 
Rising  in  order  bright, 

To  watch  their  tomb  all  night, 
Shed  for  them  yet. 

Nought  shall  their  slumber  break 
For  “ they  shall  not  awake, 

Nor  yet  be  raised 
Out  of  their  sleep,”  before 
Thy  heavens,  now  arching  o’er 
Their  couch,  shall  be  no  more. 
Thy  name  be  praised  ! 


WASHINGTON’S  REMAINS. 


By  George  Lunt. 


Ay,  leave  him  alone  to  sleep  forever, 

Till  the  strong  archangel  calls  for  the  dead, 

By  the  verdant  bank  of  that  rushing  river, 
Where  first  they  pillowed  his  mighty  head ! 

Lowly  may  be  the  turf  that  covers 
The  sacred  grave  of  his  last  repose, 

But  oh  ! there ’s  a glory  around  it  hovers, 

Broad  as  the  day-break  and  bright  as  its  close. 

Though  marble  pillars  were  reared  above  him, 
Temples  and  obelisks  rich  and  rare, — 

Better  he  dwells  in  the  hearts  that  love  him, 
Cold  and  lone  as  he  slumbers  there. 

Why  should  ye  gather  with  choral  numbers  ? 
Why  should  your  thronging  thousands  come? 

Who  will  dare  to  invade  his  slumbers, 

Or  take  him  away  from  his  narrow  home  ? 


238 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Well  he  sleeps  in  the  majesty, 

Silent  and  stern,  of  awful  death  ! 

And  he  who  visits  him  there,  should  be 

Alone  with  God  and  his  own  hushed  breath ! 

Revel  and  pomp  would  profane  his  ashes, 

And  may  never  a sound  be  murmured  there, 

But  the  glorious  river’s,  that  by  hi  n dashes, 

And  the  pilgrim’s  voice  in  his  heart-felt  prayer ! 

But  leave  him  alone  ! — To  sleep  forever ! 

Till  the  trump,  that  awakens  the  countless  dead, 
By  the  verdant  bank  of  that  rushing  river, 

Where  first  they  pillowed  his  mighty  head ! 


OLD  IRONSIDES. 


By  O.  W.  Holmes. 


Ay  ! pull  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 

And  many  a heart  has  danced  to  see 
That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 

Beneath  it  rang  the  battle-shout, 

And  hurst  the  cannon’s  roar — - 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck  once  red  with  heroes’  blood, 
Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 

When  winds  were  hurrying  o’er  the  flood, 
And  waves  were  white  below, 

No  more  shall  feel  the  conqueror’s  tread, 
Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ; 

The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 
The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

Oh  ! better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 

Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave. 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 

And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


WOMEN. 


By  John  Neal. 


It  were  no  easy  matter  to  describe  the  women  of 
a small  neighborhood,  or  of  a single  parish,  set 
apart  in  one  of  the  isles  of  the  sea  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  earth.  How  much  more  difficult  to 
describe  those  of  a large  country,  by  a few  gen- 
eral remarks.  It  is  not  so  with  men.  They  may 
be  hit  off  in  the  lump.  They  are  the  herbage, 
not  the  blossom  of  a country.  They  are  all  of  a 
hue;  they  are  not  like  the  flowers,  that  blow 
under  the  pressure  of  the  foot,  and  fade  away 
before  you  have  time  to  trace  the  perfume  of  their 
dying  breath  to  the  trodden  and  crushed  root 
you  have  scarred  with  your  heel  as  you  hurried 
by.  They  are  not  like  women — as  changeable 
as  light,  and  as  fluctuating  as  the  shadow  of  a 
summer  sea.  They  are  more  like  the  substan- 
tialities that  you  see  about  you — heavy,  and 
rocky,  and  steadfast. 

Men  are  the  realities,  women  the  poetry  of  this 
world.  Men  are  the  trees ; women  the  fruitage 
and  flower.  The  former  delight  in  a rude  soil — 
they  strike  their  roots  downward  with  a perpetual 


WOMEN. 


241 


effort,  and  heave  their  proud  branches  upward,  in 
perpetual  strife.  Are  they  to  be  removed  ? — you 
must  tear  up  the  very  earth  with  their  roots, 
rock,  and  ore,  and  impurity,  or  they  perish. 
They  cannot  be  translated  with  safety. — Some- 
thing of  their  home,  a little  of  their  native  soil, 
must  cling  to  them  forever,  or  they  die.  Not  so 
with  woman.  Give  her  but  air  and  sky  enough, 
and  she  will  seek  no  nourishment  of  the  earth, 
strike  no  roots  downward,  urge  no  sceptre  up- 
ward, but  content  herself  with  shedding  light 
and  cheerfulness  on  every  side  of  her — flowers 
and  perfume  on  everything  she  touches.  Would 
you  remove  her — you  have  but  to  unclasp  a few 
green  delicate  fibres,  to  scatter  a few  blossoms, 
and  to  shake  off  a few  large  drops — -like  the  rain- 
drops of  a summer  shower — and  lo  ! she  is  ready 
to  depart  with  you  whithersoever  you  may  steer. 
She  does  not  cling  to  the  soil,  she  does  not  yearn 
for  a native  earth  ; all  that  she  needs  anywhere 
is  something  to  grow  to.  Her  vitality  is  un- 
touched, her  sympathies  unhurt,  by  the  influ- 
ences of  a new  sky  or  a strange  air.  It  may  be, 
that,  in  her  youth,  her  blossoming  was  about  the 
door-way  of  a cottage ; it  may  be  that  she  is 
now  transplanted  to  a palace — made  to  breathe 
the  hot  and  crowded  air,  to  bask  in  the  artificial 
sunshine  of  a city — in  shadow,  and  smoke,  and 
a most  exaggerating  atmosphere.  But  even  there 
she  is  happy;  she  carries  her  home  with  her; 
and  though  what  she  clings  to  may  sicken  at  the 
21 


242 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


heart  and  perish  at  the  roots,  for  lack  of  its  native 
air,  she  will  put  forth  her  beauty,  and  scatter  her 
perfume  as  before. 

These  things  are  easily  said  : but  are  they 
true?  We  are  liable  to  be  carried  away  by 
poetry,  and  metaphor,  and  illustration ; but  what 
do  they  prove?  Why  should  it  be  more  difficult 
to  describe  the  women  than  the  men  of  a small 
neighborhood,  of  a remote  parish,  or  of  a large 
country?  Try  the  experiment  yourself.  Go  into 
the  first  church  you  see  open,  or  to  any  other 
place  where  you  may  meet  a multitude  of  women 
gathered  together.  Try  to  give  a general  idea  of 
their  dress — nay,  try  to  give  anybody  a general 
idea  of  part  of  it — of  the  fashion  of  their  bonnets. 
You  will  find  the  hats  of  the  men  all  alike;  but 
of  the  bonnets  you  will  seldom  or  never  find  two 
alike  in  the  whole  house — I might  say  on  the 
face  of  the  whole  earth.  Such  is  the  very  nature 
of  woman;  quick,  apt,  sensible  and  precipitate, 
with  an  eye  for  color  that  men  have  not,  with  ail 
ear  for  music  that  men  have  not,  and  with  a taste 
for  shape  that  shows  itself  in  everything  she 
wears,  and  in  everything  she  builds  up.  A 
woman  studies  change  and  variety ; it  is  a re- 
proach to  her  to  dress  alike — I do  not  say  to  be 
alike — for  twenty-four  hours  at  a time.  She 
would  blush  to  be  caught  twice  a year  at  a ball 
in  the  same  or  in  a similar  dress.  And  where  it 
may  not  be  in  her  power  to  put  on  a new  robe 
every  day,  it  is  the  study  of  a large  part  of  her 


WOMEN. 


243 


life  to  appear  to  do  so — to  multiply  and  vary,  by 
all  sorts  of  contrivances,  the  few  that  she  may 
have,  now  by  altering  the  shape,  now  by  giving 
a new  dye,  now  by  changing  the  ribbons,  or  a 
flounce,  or  a furbelow,  and  now  it  may  be  by 
converting  slips  into  frocks,  or  frocks  into  slips, 
or  both  into  spensers  or  riding-habits ; — all  which 
a woman  may  do  from  her  youth  up,  yet  more 
from  a love  of  change,  than  from  her  secret  wish 
to  appear  better  off  than  she  is.  And  so  with 
not  a few  of  our  men.  The  more  youthful  they 
are,  the  more  sensitive  they  are,  the  more  like 
women  they  are,  the  more  changeable  and  capri- 
cious they  are.  But  why  should  I complain  of 
this?  I do  not;  I only  mention  the  fact,  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  how  difficult  it  is  to  give 
another  a general  idea  of  the  character  of  a body 
of  women.  Before  the  hue  is  copied,  it  has 
altered.  Before  the  outline  is  finished,  it  is  no 
longer  the  same.  You  are  in  pursuit  of  the 
rainbow — you  are  describing  a changeable  land- 
scape under  the  drifting  clouds  of  a changeable 
sky — you  are  after  a bird  of  paradise — a feather — 
a butterfly — 

And  every  touch  that  woos  its  stay. 

Brushes  its  brightest  hues  away. 

But  is  this  to  complain  ? — if  I say  that  flowers 
are  not  trees,  that  fruitage  is  not  rock,  that 
women  are  not  men;  what  say  I more  than 
everybody,  woman  as  well  as  man,  should  delight 
to  acknowledge  ? Are  we  to  be  imprisoned  for- 


244 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


ever  and  aye  with  realities  ? Are  we  to  live 
under  a marble  firmament,  because,  forsooth,  a 
marble  firmament  may  have  more  stability  ? Are 
we,  avIio  live  in  the  very  midst  of  change  and 
fluctuation,  who  are  never  the  same  for  two 
minutes  together,  who  see  all  the  elements  circu- 
lating forever  and  ever  within  us  and  around  us, 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  shadow  and  light, 
and  youth  and  age — are  we  to  speak  irreverently 
of  her,  who,  by  the  greater  fineness  and  greater 
purity  of  her  corporeal  texture,  is  made  more  sen- 
sible than  we,  to  the  influences  of  sky,  and  air, 
and  sea,  and  earth?  As  well  might  we  deride 
the  perfume  of  the  flower,  and  the  hue  of  the 
wild  rose,  or  the  songs  of  birds,  or  the  flavor  of 
a peach,  for  not  being  as  fixed  and  immutable  as 
the  very  earth  we  tread  on.  Are  we  to  speak 
slightingly  of  that,  which,  with  all  its  changes, 
and  through  all  its  changes,  is  still  woman — the 
witchery  and  power,  the  pulse  and  the  life-blood 
of  our  being  ? Let  us  remember  that  the  charm 
of  the  very  sky  is  its  changeableness — of  the 
very  earth,  is  its  being  never  the  same  for  a long 
while  together— of  the  very  sea  and  air,  that  they 
change  with  every  breath  you  draw,  and  with 
every  word  you  speak. 

Let  us  remember  that  the  character  of  her  who 
is  appointed  to  be  our  companion  forever,  here 
and  hereafter, 

like  sunshine  in  the  rill, 

Though  turned  astray,  is  sunshine  still, 


THE  SPELL  OF  LOVE. 


By  Mrs.  Osgood. 


A thoughtless,  happy,  blooming  boy, 

With  dimpled  cheek  and  laughing  eye, 
Had  stayed  his  bounding  step  of  joy, 

And  hushed  his  voice’s  melody, 

And  knelt  down  by  his  mother’s  side, 

To  breathe  his  prayer  at  eventide. 

Her  gentle  hand  was  lightly  laid 
Upon  his  curls  of  sunny  hair, 

And  heart  and  cheek  and  eye  were  made 
Calmer  beneath  the  pressure  there ; 

Softly  the  prayer  went  forth,  and  blest, 

He  sank  to  his  sweet  dreaming  rest. 

Y ears  had  gone  by  : — still  wore  that  brow 
The  laughing  light  of  childish  years, 

Yet  something  on  it  told  that  now 

Life  passed  not  all  undimmed  by  tears  ; — 
She  who  had  cherished,  loved  him,  died, 
And  left  him  without  guard  or  guide. 

And  there  were  hours  when  manhood,  truth, 
All  that  can  light  our  wayward  lot, 

21  # 


246 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


All  that  he  had  been  taught  in  youth 
To  honor,  might  have  been  forgot  ; — 

But  that  soft  hand  amid  his  hair — 

Its  thrilling  fingers  rested  there  ! 

And  there  were  hours  of  passion  deep, 

When  the  proud  heart  would  rise.  Oh  ! then 
Nought  could  have  bid  the  tempest  sleep, 
Saving  that  hallowed  touch  again  ; — 

Still  fancy  felt  it  lightly  press — 

Still  wept  beneath  the  dear  caress ! 

And  sometimes  he  would  kneel  and  pray 
Amid  those  deep  repentant  tears — 

And  there  his  mother's  hand  would  play, 

Like  some  sweet  dream  of  earlier  years ; 
Guiding  him,  with  its  “ spell  of  love,” 

To  her  own  blessed  home  above  ! 


LIGHT  FOR  THE  BLIND. 


Written  for  the  Ladies7  Fair  for  the  Blind,  May  1,  1834. 


By  Miss  Foster. 

Light  for  the  Blind  ! who  watch 
“ The  sweet  approach  of  morn,” 
Not  by  pale  flash  and  ray, 

That  o’er  the  dark  east  play, 

Heralds  of  rosy  dawn  ; — 

But  lift  the  earnest  brow, 

Its  first  light  airs  to  feel ; 

Or  list  till  may  be  heard 
The  voice  of  early  bird, 

Wakening  the  wood-choir’s  peal: 

Who  seek  Spring’s  infant  buds, 
And  fair  unfolding  flowers, 

Not  by  their  virgin  bloom, 

But  by  their  faint  perfume, 

Scenting  the  fresh-leaved  bowers  : 

Who  wist  not  of  the  power 
In  Evening’s  dark  wand  hid, 


248 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Whose  touch  lights  up,  afar, 
Planet  and  golden  star, 

That  burn  not  till  she  bid. 

Ye  cannot  rend  the  veil 
O’er  darkened  nature  thrown  ; 
And  bid  the  sightless  view 
Earth,  and  the  sky’s  deep  blue, 

In  pomp  of  fair  hues  shown  ; — 

Yet  go ; with  healing  touch 
Anoint  the  inward  eye  ; 

The  light  of  knowledge  pour 
Its  sealed  and  dark  orb  o’er — 
Day  for  the  Blind  draws  nigh  ! 


THE  DARK  SIDE. 


By  Mrs.  Davis. 


“ Have  you  heard  that  Miss  P.  is  soon  to  be  mar- 
ried ? 55 

“ No,  but  I am  glad  to  hear  it ; she  has  waited 
long  enough.55 

“Mr.  L.,  the  great  merchant,  has  failed.55 

“ Ah,  indeed  ! 1 511  be  bound  he  has  lost  noth- 

ing by  his  failure.  He  knows  his  own  interest 
too  well.55 

“Have  you  read  Mr.  M.5s  new  work?  The 
papers  are  praising  it  highly.55 

“ No  wonder — he  has  sent  a volume  to  all  the 
editors,  and  they  can  do  nothing  else  than  deal 
out  a few  puffs.55 

“ Mrs.  R.  is  a fine-looking  woman ; X think  her 
complexion  really  beautiful.55 

“ She  owes  all  her  beauty  to  her  dress.  I assure 
you,  I saw  her  one  day  in  dishabille,  and  she  was 
yellow  as  an  ogre.55 

The  natural  eye  must  look  at  objects  just  as 
they  are  presented,  but  the  mental  eye  is  under 
no  such  necessity.  It  possesses  the  wonderful 
faculty  of  turning  things  over  and  over  to  suit 


250 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


itself.  How  unwise  then  always  to  turn  up  the 
dark  side. 

Some  people  run  into  this  folly  in  regard  to 
things,  others  respecting  events,  and  a more  guilty 
class  in  regard  to  characters  and  actions.  This 
last  form  of  the  evil  is  the  worst,  and  is  frequently 
made  familiar  by  indulgence  in  the  others. 

An  individual  first  begins  to  scan  the  objects 
around  him,  marking  and  magnifying  every  little 
defect.  If  he  pluck  a rose,  he  hardly  notices  its 
beauty  or  fragrance,  but  is  wondering  why  roses 
should  have  so  many  thorns.  If  he  is  regaled  with 
delicious  fruits,  instead  of  praising  their  flavor, 
he  wishes  they  were  not  so  full  of  stones  and 
seeds.  Show  him  a fine  building,  and  he  looks 
at  it  on  purpose  to  find  something  wrong,  and  of 
course  succeeds. 

But  wo  to  the  individual  who  has  formed  this 
evil  habit  of  looking  at  earth’s  pleasant  things 
through  the  smoky  atmosphere  of  his  own  bad 
feelings  ! — It  will  be  sure  to  lead  to  similar  views 
of  every  event,  past  or  future. 

The  choicest  blessings  of  life  may,  by  a person 
of  this  querulous  disposition,  be  converted  into 
calamities.  When  he  looks  back,  it  is  not  to 
recall  happy  hours,  or  rejoice  in  the  mournful 
pleasures  which  joys  departed  should  excite ; — 
his  retrospective  glance  dwells  only  on  the  dark 
passages,  the  weary  paths  of  his  journey ; and  he 
lifts,  with  unholy  hand,  the  veil  of  oblivion  which 
time  has  drawn  over  the  past. 


THE  DARK  SIDE, 


251 


Those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  throwing  other1 
things  into  the  shade,  are  very  apt  to  entertain 
the  same  dark  views  of  the  characters  and  actions 
of  their  fellow  men.  They  doubt  the  affections 
of  their  friends,  and  question  the  motives  of  every 
good  action.  They  weigh  every  person,  and 
every  person  is  found  wanting. 

Alas  ! for  the  community  infested  by  such  dark 
spirits.  There  will  be  tales  of  scandal,  and 
ruined  characters,  and  violated  vows,  and  broken 
hearts. 

The  habit  of  looking  on  the  gloomy  side  may 
not,  at  first  sight,  appear  very  criminal,  but  when 
we  follow  it  out,  and  see  that  it  leads  almost  cer- 
tainly to  jealousy,  hatred  and  detraction,  we  must 
confess  it  is  an  evil  tree  which  brings  forth  such 
bitter  fruits. 

David  Hume  declared  he  would  rather  possess 
a cheerful  disposition,  inclined  always  to  look  on 
the  bright  side,  than  with  a gloomy  mind  be 
master  of  an  estate  of  ten  thousand  a year. 
And  he  was  wise  in  his  estimate.  It  would  be 
better,  because  more  conducive  to  happiness. 

There  are  no  melancholy  children,  and  there 
need  be  no  dark-souled  men,  or  fretful  women. 
We  can  be  happy,  or  at  least  cheerful,  if  we  so 
choose.  Keep  the  heart  right,  and  the  feelings 
will  be  so  too. 


LINES. 


Written  in  the  Burying-ground  at  New  Ilaven. 


By  N.  L.  Frothingham. 


Oh  ! where  are  they,  whose  all,  that  earth  could  give, 
Beneath  these  senseless  marbles  disappeared  ? 

Where  even  they,  who  taught  these  stones  to  grieve  ! 
The  hands  that  hewed  them,  and  the  hearts  that 
reared  ? 

Such  the  poor  bounds  of  all  that ’s  hoped  or  feared, 
Within  the  griefs  and  smiles  of  this  short  day ; 

Here  sunk  the  honored,  vanished  the  endeared, 

This  the  last  tribute  love  to  love  could  pay, 

An  idle  pageant-pile  to  graces  passed  away. 

Why  deck  these  sculptured  trophies  of  the  tomb  ? 
Why,  victims,  garland  thus  the  spoiler’s  fane  ? 

Hope  ye  by  these  to  avert  oblivion’s  doom, 

In  grief  ambitious,  and  in  ashes  vain  ? 

Go,  rather,  bid  the  sand  the  trace  retain, 

Of  all  that  parted  virtue  felt  and  did  ! 

Yet  powerless  man  revolts  at  ruin’s  reign  ; 

Hence  blazoned  flattery  mocks  pride’s  coffin  lid; 
Hence  towered  on  Egypt’s  plains  the  giant  pyramid. 


LINES. 


253 


Sink,  mean  memorials  of  what  cannot  die ! 

Be  lowly  as  the  relics  ye  o’erspread, 

Nor  lift  your  funeral  forms  so  gorgeously, 

To  tell  who  slumbers  in  each  narrow  bed. 

I would  not  honor  thus  the  sainted  dead ; 

Nor  to  each  stranger’s  careless  ear  declare 
My  sacred  griefs  for  joy  and  friendship  fled. 

Oh  ! let  me  hide  the  names  of  those  that  were, 

Deep  in  my  stricken  heart,  and  shrine  them  only  there  ! 


22 


THE  MAN  OF  EXPEDIENTS. 


By  Samuel  Gilman. 


The  man  of  expedients  is  he  who,  never  pro- 
viding for  the  little  mishaps  and  stitch-droppings 
with  which  this  mortal  life  is  pestered,  and  too 
indolent  or  too  ignorant  to  repair  them  in  the 
proper  way,  passes  his  days  in  inventing  a suc- 
cession of  devices,  pretexts,  substitutes,  plans  and 
commutations,  by  the  help  of  which  he  thinks  he 
appears  as  well  as  other  people. 

Thus,  the  man  of  expedients  may  be  said  only 
to  half  live ; he  is  the  creature  of  outside — the 
victim  of  emergencies — whose  happiness  often 
depends  on  the  possession  of  a pin,  or  the  strength 
of  a button-hole. 

In  his  countenance  you  behold  marks  of  anxiety 
and  contrivance ; the  natural  consequence  of  his 
shiftless  mode  of  life.  The  internal  workings  of 
his  soul  are  generally  a compound  of  cunning 
and  the  heart-ache.  One  half  of  his  time  he 
is  silent,  languid,  indolent ; the  other  half  he 
moves,  bustles,  and  exclaims — “ What’s  to  be 
done  now?’7  His  whole  aim  is  to  live  as  near 
as  possible  to  the  very  verge  of  propriety.  His 


THE  MAN  OF  EXPEDIENTS. 


255 


business  is  all  slightingly  performed;  and  when  a 
transaction  is  over,  he  has  no  confidence  in  his 
own  effectiveness,  but  asks,  though  in  a careless 
manner,  “ Will  it  do?  will  it  do?” 

Look  through  the  various  professions  and  char- 
acters of  life.  You  will  there  see  men  of  expe- 
dients darting,  and  shifting,  and  glancing,  like 
fishes  in  the  stream.  If  a merchant,  the  man  of 
expedients  borrows  incontinently  at  two  per  cent 
a month;  if  a sailor,  he  stows  his  hold  with 
jury-masts,  rather  than  ascertain  if  his  ship  be 
sea- worthy ; if  a visitor  where  he  dislikes,  he  is 
called  out  before  the  evening  has  half  expired  ; 
if  a musician,  he  scrapes  on  a fiddle  string  of 
silk ; if  an  actor,  he  takes  his  stand  within  three 
feet  of  the  prompter ; if  a poet,  he  makes  fault 
rhyme  with  ought , and  look  with  spoke;  if  a re- 
viewer, he  fills  up  three  quarters  of  his  article 
with  extracts  from  the  writer  whom  he  abuses  ; 
if  a divine,  he  leaves  ample  room  in  every  sermon 
for  an  exchange  of  texts;  if  a physician,  he  is 
often  seen  galloping  at  full  rate,  nobody  knows 
where ; if  a debtor,  he  has  a marvellous  acquain- 
tance with  short  corners  and  dark  alleys;  if  a 
printer,  he  is  adroit  at  scabbarding ; if  a collegian, 
he  commits  Euclid  and  Locke  to  memory  without 
understanding  them,  interlines  his  Greek,  and 
writes  themes  equal  to  the  Rambler. 

But  it  is  in  the  character  of  a general  scholar, 
that  the  man  of  expedients  most  shines.  He 
ranges  through  all  the  arts  and  sciences — in  cy- 


256 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


clopoedias.  He  acquires  a most  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  classical  literature — from  translations. 
He  is  very  extensively  read — in  title  pages.  He 
obtains  an  exact  acquaintance  of  authors — from 
reviews.  He  follows  all  literature  up  to  its 
source — in  tables  of  contents.  His  researches  are 
indefatigable — into  indexes.  He  quotes  memori- 
ter  with  astonishing  facility — the  Dictionary  of 
Quotations; — and  his  bibliographical  familiarity 
is  miraculous — with  Dibdin. 

We  are  sorry  to  say,  that  our  men  of  expe- 
dients are  to  be  sometimes  discovered  in  the 
region  of  morality.  There  are  those,  who  claim 
the  praise  of  a good  action,  when  they  have  acted 
merely  from  convenience,  inclination  or  compul- 
sion. There  are  those,  who  make  a show  of 
industry,  when  they  are  set  in  motion  only  by 
avarice.  There  are  those,  who  are  quiet  and 
peaceable,  only  because  they  are  sluggish.  There 
are  those,  who  are  sagely  silent,  because  they 
have  not  one  idea;  abstemious,  from  repletion: 
patriots,  because  they  are  ambitious ; perfect, 
because  there  is  no  temptation. 

Again,  let  us  look  at  the  man  of  expedients  in 
argument.  His  element  is  the  sophism.  He  is 
at  home  in  a circle.  His  forte— his  glory,  is 
the  petitio  principii.  Often  he  catches  at  your 
words,  and  not  at  your  ideas.  Thus,  if  you  are 
arguing  that  light  is  light,  and  he  happens  to  be, 
(as  it  is  quite  likely  he  will,)  on  the  other  side  of 
the  question,  he  snatches  at  your  phraseology. 


THE  MAN  OF  EXPEDIENTS. 


257 


and  exclaims,  Did  you  ever  weigh  it?  Sometimes 
he  answers  you  hy  silence.  Or  if  he  pretends  to 
anything  like  a show  of  fair  reasoning,  he  culti- 
vates a certain  species  of  argumentative  obliquity 
that  defies  the  acutest  logic.  When  you  think 
you  have  him  in  a corner,  he  is  gone — he  has 
slipped  through  some  hole  of  an  argument,  which 
you  hoped  was  only  letting  in  the  light  of  convic- 
tion. In  vain  you  attempt  to  fix  him — it  is 
putting  your  finger  on  a flea. 

But  let  us  come  down  a little  lower  into  life. 
Who  appears  so  well  and  so  shining  at  a ball 
room,  as  the  man  of  expedients?  Yet  his  small- 
clothes are  borrowed,  and  as  for  his  knee-buckles 
— about  as  ill  matched,  as  if  one  had  belonged  to 
his  hat  and  the  other  to  a galoche — to  prevent 
their  difference  being  detected,  he  stands  sidewise 
towards  his  partner.  Nevertheless,  the  circum- 
stance makes  him  a more  vivacious  dancer,  since, 
by  the  rapidity  of  his  motions,  he  prevents  a too 
curious  examination  from  the  spectators. 

Search  farther  into  his  dress.  You  will  find 
that  he  very  genteelly  dangles  one  glove.  There 
are  five  pins  about  him,  and  as  many  buttons 
gone,  or  button-holes  broken.  His  pocket-book 
is  a newspaper.  His  fingers  are  his  comb,  and 
the  palm  of  his  hand  his  clothes-brush.  He 
conceals  his  antiquated  linen  by  the  help  of  a 
close  vest,  and  adroitly  claps  a bur  on  the  rent 
hole  of  his  stocking  while  walking  to  church. 

22* 


258 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Follow  him  home.  Behold  his  felicitous  knack 
of  metamorphosing  all  kinds  of  furniture  into  all 
kinds  of  furniture.  A brick  constitutes  his  right 
andiron,  and  a stone  his  left.  His  bellows  is  his 
hearth-brush,  and  a hat  his  bellows,  and  that 
too  borrowed  from  a broken  window-pane.  He 
shaves  himself  without  a looking-glass,  by  the 
sole  help  of  imagination.  He  sits  down  on  a 
table.  His  fingers  are  his  snuffers.  He  puts  his 
candlestick  into  a chair.  That  candlestick  is  a 
decanter.  That  decanter  was  borrowed.  That 
borrowing  was  without  leave.  He  drinks  wine 
out  of  a tumbler.  A fork  is  his  cork-screw. 
His  wine-glass  he  converts  into  a standish. 

Very  ingenious  is  he  in  the  whole  business  of 
writing  a letter.  For  that  purpose  he  makes  use 
of  three  eighths  of  a sheet  of  paper.  His  knees 
are  his  writing-desk.  His  ruler  is  a book  cover, 
and  his  pencil  a spoon  handle.  He  mends  his 
pen  with  a pair  of  scissors.  He  dilutes  his  ink 
with  water  till  it  is  reduced  to  invisibility.  He 
uses  ashes  for  sand.  He  seals  his  letter  with  the 
shreds  and  relics  of  his  wafer  box.  His  seal  is  a 
pin. 

O reader,  if  you  have  smiled  at  any  parts  of 
the  foregoing  representation,  let  it  be  to  some 
purpose.  There  is  no  fault  we  are  all  so  apt  to 
indulge,  as  that  into  which  we  are  pushed  by  the 
ingenuity  of  indolence — namely,  the  invention  of 
expedients. 


FLOWERS. 


By  Henry  Pickering. 


La  vue  d’une  fleur  caresse  mon  imagination,  et  flatte  mes  sens  a un 
point  inexprimable : elle  reveille  avec  volupte  le  sentiment  de  mon 
existence. 

Mme.  Roland . 


The  impatient  Morn, 

Flushed  with  the  vernal  gale,  calls  forth,  “ Arise  ! 

To  trace  the  hills,  the  meads,  where  thousand  dyes 
The  ground  adorn, 

While  the  dew  sparkles  yet  within  the  violet’s  eyes : ” 
And  when  the  day 

In  golden  slumber  sinks,  with  accent  sweet 
Mild  Evening  comes  to  lure  the  willing  feet 
With  her  to  stray, 

Where’er  the  bashful  flowers  the  observant  eye  may 
greet. 

Near  the  moist  brink 
Of  music-loving  streams  they  ever  keep, 

And  often  in  the  lucid  fountains  peep ; 

Oft,  laughing,  drink 

Of  the  mad  torrent’s  spray,  perched  near  the  thundering 
steep. 


260 


TIIE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


And  everywhere 

Along  the  plashy  marge,  and  shallow  bed 
Of  the  still  waters,  they  innumerous  spread  ; 

Koc.ked  gently  there, 

The  beautiful  white  lily  pillows  its  bright  head. 

Within  the  dell, 

Within  the  rocky  clefts  they  love  to  hide ; 

And  hang  adventurous  on  the  steep  hill-side  ; 

Or  rugged  fell, 

Where  the  young  eagle  waves  his  wings  in  youthful 
pride. 

In  the  green  sea 

Of  forest  leaves,  where  nature  wanton  plays, 

They  humbler  bloom  ; though  through  the  verdant  maze 
The  tulip-tree 

Its  golden  chalice  oft  triumphantly  displays  : 

And,  of  pure  white, 

Embedded  ’mid  its  glossy  leaves  on  high, 

There  the  superb  magnolia  lures  the  eye  ; 

While,  waving  light, 

The  locust’s  airy  tassels  scent  the  ambient  sky. 

But  oh  ! ye  bowers — 

Ye  valleys  where  the  spring  perpetual  reigns, 

And  myriad  blossoms  o’er  the  purple  plains 
Exuberant  showers — 

How  fancy  revels  in  your  lovelier  domains ! 


FLOWERS. 


261 


All  love  the  light; 

Yet,  in  ethereal  beauty,  too,  arrayed, 

What  flowers  unnumbered  spring  within  the  shade, 
Till  comes  a blight — 

Comes  unaware — and  then  incontinent  they  fade  ! 
And  thus  they  bloom, 

And  thus  their  lives  ambrosial  breathe  away ; 

Thus  flourish  too  the  lovely  and  the  gay : 

And  the  same  doom 

Youth,  beauty,  flower,  alike  consigns  to  swift  decay. 


AMERICAN  INFLUENCE. 


By  Francis  Wayland. 

Our  country  has  given  to  the  world  the  first 
ocular  demonstration,  not  only  of  the  practica- 
bility, but  also  of  the  unrivalled  superiority  of  a 
popular  form  of  government.  It  was  not  long 
since  fashionable  to  ridicule  the  idea,  that  a 
people  could  govern  themselves.  The  science  of 
rulers  was  supposed  to  consist  in  keeping  the 
people  in  ignorance,  in  restraining  them  by  force, 
and  amusing  them  by  shows.  The  people  were 
treated  like  a ferocious  monster,  whose  keepers 
could  only  be  secure  while  its  dungeon  was  dark, 
and  its  chain  massive.  But  the  example  of  our 
own  country  is  rapidly  consigning  these  notions 
to  merited  desuetude.  It  is  teaching  the  world 
that  the  easiest  method  of  governing  an  intelligent 
people  is,  to  allow  them  to  govern  themselves. 
It  is  demonstrating  that  the  people,  so  far  from 
being  the  enemies,  are  the  best,  nay,  the  natural 
friends  of  wholesome  institutions.  It  is  showing 
that  kings,  and  nobles,  and  standing  armies,  and 
religious  establishments,  are  at  best  only  very 


AMERICAN  INFLUENCE. 


263 


useless  appendages  to  a form  of  government.  It 
is  showing  to  the  world  that  every  right  can  be 
perfectly  protected,  under  rulers  elected  by  the 
people;  that  a government  can  be  stable  with  no 
other  support  than  the  affections  of  its  citizens  ; 
that  a people  can  be  virtuous,  without  an  estab- 
lished religion;  and,  more  than  this,  that  just 
such  a government  as  it  was  predicted  could  no 
where  exist  but  in  the  brain  of  a benevolent 
enthusiast,  has  actually  existed  for  half  a cen- 
tury, acquiring  strength,  and  compactness,  and 
solidity  with  every  year’s  duration.  And  it  is 
manifest  that  nowhere  else  have  men  been  so 
free,  so  happy,  so  enlightened,  or  so  enterpris- 
ing, and  nowhere  have  the  legitimate  objects  of 
civil  institutions  been  so  triumphantly  attained. 
Against  facts  such  as  these,  it  is  difficult  to 
argue;  and  they  furnish  the  friends  of  free  insti- 
tutions with  more  than  an  answer  to  all  the  theo- 
ries of  legitimacy. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  this  subject  further. 
This  country  stands  linked  by  a thousand  ties  to 
the  popular  sentiment  of  Europe.  We  have  no 
sympathies  with  the  rulers.  The  principles,  in 
support  of  which  they  are  allied,  are  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  the  very  spirit  of  our  constitu- 
tion. All  our  sympathies  are  with  the  people; 
for  we  are  all  of  us  the  people.  And  not  only 
are  we  thus  amalgamated  with  them  in  feeling; 
we  are  manifestly  at  the  head  of  that  feeling. 
We  first  promulgated  their  sentiments,  we  taught 


264 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


them  their  rights,  we  first  contended  success- 
fully for  their  principles ; and  for  sixty  years  we 
have  furnished  incontrovertible  evidence  that 
their  principles  are  true.  These  principles  have 
already  girded  us  with  Herculean  strength,  in 
the  very  infancy  of  our  empire,  and  have  given 
us  political  precedence  of  governments,  which 
had  been  established  on  the  old  foundation,  cen- 
turies before  our  continent  was  discovered.  And 
now  what  nation  will  be  second  in  the  new  order 
of  things,  is  yet  to  be  decided  ; but  the  provi- 
dence of  God  has  already  announced,  that,  if 
true  to  ourselves,  we  shall  be  inevitably  first. 

Now  to  say  that  any  country  is  at  the  head  of 
popular  sentiment,  is  only  to  say,  in  other  words, 
that  it  is  in  her  power  to  direct  that  sentiment. 
It  devolves  on  this  country,  then,  to  lead  forward 
the  present  movement  of  public  opinion  to  free- 
dom and  independence.  It  devolves  on  us  to 
sustain  and  to  chasten  the  love  of  liberty  among 
the  friends  of  reform  in  other  nations.  It  is 
not  enough  that  the  people  everywhere  desire  a 
change.  The  subversion  of  a bad  government  is 
by  no  means  synonymous  with  the  establishment 
of  a better.  A people  must  know  what  it  is  to 
be  free;  they  must  have  learned  to  reverence 
themselves,  and  bow  implicitly  to  the  principles 
of  right,  or  nothing  can  be  gained  by  a change  of 
institutions.  A constitution  written  on  paper  is 
utterly  worthless,  unless  it  be  also  written  on  the 
hearts  of  a people.  Unless  men  have  learned  to 


AMERICAN  INFLUENCE. 


265 


govern  themselves,  they  may  be  plunged  into  all 
the  horrors  of  civil  war,  and  yet  emerge  from  the 
most  fearful  revolution,  a lawless  nation  of  san- 
guinary slaves.  But  if  this  country  remain 
happy,  and  its  institutions  free,  it  will  render  the 
common  people  of  other  countries  acquainted 
with  the  fundamental  principles  of  the  science  of 
government,  this  knowledge  will  silently  produce 
its  practical  result,  and  year  after  year  will  insen- 
sibly train  them  to  freedom. 

But  suppose  that  the  spirit  of  freedom  have 
been  sustained  to  its  issue,  the  blow  to  have  been 
struck,  and,  either  by  concession  or  by  force,  the 
time  to  have  arrived  when  the  institutions  of  the 
old  world  are  to  be  transformed ; then  will  the 
happiness  of  the  civilized  world  be  again  con- 
nected most  intimately  with  the  destinies  of  this 
country.  Ancient  constitutions  having  been  abol- 
ished, new  ones  must  be  adopted  by  almost  every 
nation  in  Europe.  The  old  foundations  will  have 
been  removed ; it  will  still  remain  to  be  decided 
on  what  foundations  the  social  edifice  shall  rest. 
From  the  relation  which  we  now  sustain  to  the 
friends  of  free  institutions,  as  well  as  from  all  the 
cases  of  revolution  which  have  lately  occurred,  it 
is  evident  that  to  this  nation  they  will  all  look  for 
precedent  and  example.  Thus  far  our  institu- 
tions have  conferred  on  man  all  that  any  form 
of  government  was  ever  expected  to  bestow. 
Should  the  grand  experiment  which  we  are  now 
making  on  the  human  character  succeed,  there 
23 


266 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


can  be  no  doubt  that  other  governments,  follow- 
ing our  example,  will  be  formed  on  the  principles 
of  equality,  of  right.  Who  does  not  see,  that  if 
France  had  been  illuminated  in  the  era  of  her 
revolution  by  the  light  which  our  sixty  years’ 
experience  has  shed  upon  the  world,  unstained 
with  the  blood  of  three  millions  of  her  citizens, 
she  might  now  have  been  rejoicing  in  a govern- 
ment of  law  ? 

We  have  spoken  only  of  the  effects  which  this 
country  might  produce  upon  the  politics  of  Eu- 
rope, simply  by  her  example.  It  is  not  impossi- 
ble, however,  that  she  may  be  called  to  exert  an 
influence  still  more  direct  on  the  destinies  of  man. 
Should  the  rulers  of  Europe  make  war  upon  the 
principles  of  our  constitution,  because  its  exis- 
tence “ may  operate  as  an  example” — or  should 
a universal  appeal  be  made  to  arms,  on  the  ques- 
tion of  civil  and  religious  liberty — it  is  manifest 
that  we  must  take  no  secondary  part  in  the  con- 
troversy. The  contest  will  involve  the  civilized 
world,  and  the  blow  will  be  struck  which  must 
decide  the  fate  of  man  for  centuries  to  come. 

Then  will  the  hour  have  arrived,  when,  uniting 
with  herself  the  friends  of  freedom  throughout 
the  world,  this  country  must  breast  herself  to  the 
shock  of  congregated  nations.  Then  will  she 
need  the  wealth  of  her  merchants,  the  prowess 
of  her  warriors,  and  the  sagacity  of  her  states- 
men. Then,  on  the  altars  of  our  God,  let  us 
each  one  devote  himself  to  the  cause  of  the 


AMERICAN  INFLUENCE. 


267 


human  race ; and  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  of 
Hosts  go  forth  unto  the  battle.  If  need  be,  let 
our  choicest  blood  flow  freely;  for  life  itself  is 
valueless,  when  such  interests  are  at  stake. 
Then,  when  a world  in  arms  is  assembling  to  the 
conflict,  may  this  country  be  found  fighting  in 
the  vanguard  for  the  liberties  of  man.  God  him- 
self hath  summoned  her  to  the  contest,  and  she 
may  not  shrink  back.  For  this  hour  may  he  by 
his  grace  prepare  her ! 

And  if  the  cause  of  true  religion  and  of  man 
shall  eventually  triumph,  as  we  trust  in  God  it 
will,  who  can  tell  how  splendid  are  the  destinies 
which  will  then  await  this  country  ! One  feeling, 
the  love  of  liberty,  will  have  cemented  together 
all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Though  speaking 
different  languages,  and  inhabiting  different  re- 
gions, all  will  be  but  one  people,  united  in  the 
pursuit  of  one  object,  the  happiness  of  the  whole. 
And  at  the  head  of  this  truly  holy  alliance,  if 
faithful  to  her  trust,  will  then  this  nation  be 
found.  The  first  that  taught  them  to  be  free; 
the  first  that  suffered  in  the  contest ; the  nation 
that  most  freely  and  most  firmly  stood  by  them 
in  the  hour  of  their  calamity ; at  her  feet  will 
they  lay  the  tribute  of  universal  gratitude.  Each 
one  bound  to  her  by  every  sentiment  of  interest 
and  affection,  she  will  be  the  centre  of  the  new 
system  which  then  shall  emerge  out  of  the  chaos 
of  ancient  institutions.  Henceforth  she  will  sway 
for  ages  the  destinies  of  the  world. 


TIIE  SILENT  FAREWELL. 


By  Thomas  Power. 


Oh  ! say  not  so  soon ’t  is  the  moment  to  part, 

That  friends  so  united  can  give  but  a tear, 

That  fancy  alone  must  recall,  in  the  heart, 

The  whispers  of  friendship  so  soft  on  the  ear  ! 

When  lips  cannot  utter  the  anguish  we ’d  tell, 

Our  hearts  feel  most  keenly  the  silent  farewell. 

Though  storms  on  the  waters  that  part  us  may  rise, 
And  wake  their  dark  forms  on  the  breast  of  the  deep, 
No  cloud  shall  e’er  come  to  o’ershadow  the  eyes 
Now  quiet  and  gentle  as  infancy’s  sleep  : 

The  sunshine  of  hope  each  dark  form  shall  expel, 
And  wake  the  kind  thoughts  of  the  silent  farewell. 

Far,  far  be  the  day,  ere  a throb  of  this  heart 
Shall  cease  its  emotion  for  friendship  so  true  ; 

And,  ere  a kind  wish  from  the  soul  should  depart, 

I ’d  bid  to  this  life  and  its  changes  adieu. 

Long,  long  may  the  joy  in  this  bosom  still  dwell, 

And  friendship  revive  the  last  silent  farewell ! 


THE  LAND’S-END. 


By  Samuel  Woodworth. 

The  gale  was  propitious,  all  canvass  was  spread, 

As  swift  through  the  water  we  glided, 

And  the  tear-drop  yet  glistened  that  friendship  had  shed, 
Though  the  pang  whence  it  sprang  had  subsided. 
Fast  faded  in  distance  each  object  we  knew, 

As  the  shores  which  we  loved  were  retiring, 

And  the  last  grateful  object  which  lingered  in  view, 
Was  the  beacon  on  land’s-end  aspiring. 

Ah  ! here,  I exclaimed,  is  an  emblem  of  life  ; 

For  ’tis  but  a turbulent  ocean, 

Where  passion  with  reason  is  ever  at  strife, 

While  our  frail  little  barks  are  in  motion. 

The  haven  of  infancy,  calm  and  serene, 

We  leave  in  the  distance  retiring, 

While  memory  lingers  to  gaze  on  some  scene, 

Like  the  beacon  on  land’s-end  aspiring. 

Oh  ! may  I be  careful  to  steer  by  that  chart, 

Which  wisdom  in  mercy  has  given, 

And  true,  like  the  needle,  this  tremulous  heart, 

Be  constantly  pointing  to  heaven. 

Thus  safely  with  tempests  and  billows  I ’ll  cope, 

And  find,  when  at  last  they  ’re  subsiding, 

On  the  land’s-end  of  life  there ’s  a beacon  of  hope, 

To  the  harbor  of  happiness  guiding  ! 

23  * 


TIGHT  LACING. 


[An  Epitaph  on  the  last  of  the  Human  Race.] 


By  Wm.  A.  Alcott. 

Here  perished  the  last  puny  individual  of  a race 
of  beings,  originally  made  in  the  image  of  their 
Creator;  and,  of  course,  noble  and  godlike.  Their 
lives  were  at  first  protracted  to  a hundred  years, 
or  more  ; and  they  were  not  only  long,  but  useful 
and  happy.  But  though  the  race  was  made 
upright,  they  sought  out  many  inventions,  some 
of  which  resulted  in  their  ruin. 

The  length  and  happiness  of  their  lives  had 
been  made  dependent  upon  the  free  and  rapid 
circulation  of  about  three  gallons  (in  an  adult)  of 
blood  through  every  part  of  their  bodies,  and  the 
preservation  of  this  blood  in  a pure  state.  To 
preserve  it  in  the  latter  condition,  a set  of  organs, 
called  lungs,  had  been  placed  in  a large  cavity  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  body  ; and  things  had  been  so 
contrived,  that,  by  a process  denominated  breath- 
ing, these  lungs  were  inflated  with  air  twenty 
times  or  more  a minute,  and  as  often  emptied ; 
and  when  thus  frequently  filled  with  pure  air, 


TIGHT  LACING. 


271 


the  effect  was  to  produce  such  changes  in  the 
blood  which  was  constantly  passing  through  them, 
as  were  necessary,  and  indispensable  to  health. 

These  lungs  were  contained  in  a large  bony 
hollow  or  cavity,  shaped  somewhat  like  a sugar- 
loaf;  broad  and  capacious  below,  but  smaller 
above.  Although  this  cavity  was  surrounded  by 
bones,  it  was  easily  compressible,  especially  about 
the  bottom,  and  during  the  first  years  of  life. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  after  this  race  of  beings 
had  existed  about  5700  years,  some  of  the  females, 
who  constituted  about  half  their  whole  number, 
undertook  to  improve  their  structure.  They  did  not 
like  the  shape  which  the  Creator  had  given  them  ; 
it  was  clumsy,  they  thought,  and  ungraceful. 
So  they  began  to  compress  the  cavity  of  the  lungs 
about  the  bottom,  and  retain  it  in  this  shape.  At 
first,  such  an  outrageous  and  impious  procedure 
was  not  generally  tolerated ; and  the  practice 
was  for  a time  set  aside.  But  after  repeated 
efforts,  they  at  last  succeeded,  about  the  year  of 
the  world  5800  ; and  the  custom  became  general 
and  permanent. 

The  first  evil  results  were  not  very  obvious.  At 
least  it  was  not  quite  obvious  to  the  sufferer,  that 
tight  lacing  was  the  cause,  though  her  physi- 
cians told  her  so.  They  consisted  chiefly  in  short 
and  difficult  breathing;  greater  liability  to  colds 
and  obstructions  in  the  system ; coughs ; cold 
extremities;  irregular  appetite;  bad  digestion; 
languor;  and  a pale  or  leaden  appearance.  But, 


272 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


as  the  bony  cavity  became  permanently  con- 
tracted at  the  bottom,  all  the  other  organs,  the 
stomach,  the  liver,  and  even  the  nerves,  became 
affected.  To  the  former  complaints  were  now 
added  dyspepsia,  scrofula,  hypochondria,  con- 
sumption, and  many  more  tedious  and  difficult 
diseases.  Not  only  was  the  body  diseased,  but, 
through  the  medium  of  the  body,  the  mind  be- 
came affected.  There  was  a law  in  their  frames 
that  if  one  member — as  the  lungs — suffered,  all 
the  other  members  suffered  with  it ; and  also  that 
if  the  body  was  injured,  the  intellect  suffered 
sooner  or  later,  in  similar  proportion.  To  pale, 
emaciated,  sickly  bodies,  were  now  added  fee- 
ble and  debilitated  minds,  and  even  sluggish  or 
cold  affections  towards  their  fellows,  and  towards 
their  Creator.  Not  only  was  there  a general  ner- 
vousness, as  it  was  sometimes  called,  or  irrita- 
bility, but  a downright  fretfulness,  peevishness, 
and  impatience. 

These  evils  were  most  general  among  a class 
or  order  of  people  called  Christians ; and  so  called 
because  the  name  of  their  founder  and  leader  was 
Christ.  These  persons  professed  to  follow  this 
leader’s  directions  in  all  things,  and  those  direc- 
tions had  been  recorded  after  his  decease  in  a 
book.  This  taught  that  it  was  their  duty  to  do 
all  things  in  such  a manner  as  would  most  pro- 
mote the  general  good,  in  the  best  order  and  hap- 
piness of  the  universe;  and  to  preserve  their 
bodies  in  the  greatest  possible  degree  of  health 


TIGHT  LACING. 


273 


and  vigor  for  this  purpose.  If  those  bodies  were 
thus  duly  taken  care  of,  they  were  distinctly  told 
that  they  might  become  residences  or  temples  of 
the  divine  spirit. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  their  bodies  con- 
tinued to  be  injured  in  the  foregoing  manner,  and 
with  the  foregoing  results.  But  the  whole  is  not 
yet  told.  The  evils  having  become  permanent  in 
the  individuals  of  one  generation,  soon  became  so 
much  a part  of  the  human  constitution  that  they 
were  transmitted  to  others. 

For  the  first  two  hundred  years  of  the  history  of 
this  declension,  the  length  of  human  life,  and  the 
vigor  of  the  race,  did  not  seem  materially  altered, 
except  in  the  case  of  those  females  who  were 
immediate  sufferers.  The  robust  part  of  them, 
and  the  males  generally,  did  not  seem  to  be 
greatly  degenerated.  But  in  the  next  century, 
not  only  the  one  sex,  but  the  other,  began  to  be 
slender  and  wasp-shaped ; their  size  was  much 
diminished,  and  their  symmetry  disturbed.  Idiots 
of  both  sexes  became  greatly  increased  in  num- 
ber ; monsters  were  more  frequent ; diseases, 
especially  dyspepsia  and  consumption,  became 
more  common  and  fatal ; and  the  whole  race  was 
now  most  evidently  dwindling  away.  It  was  in 
vain  that  the  teachers  on  soul  and  body — among 
the  Christians — had  preached  loud  and  long  on 
the  subject,  such  was  the  general  devotion  to  the 
goddess  Fashion  ; and  now  they  had  no  lungs  to 
preach  with. 


274 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


By  the  year  6200,  the  last  of  that  portion  of 
these  beings  called  the  European  race — a solitary 
idiot— sank  down  with  age  and  its  decrepitude  at 
thirty,  and  rose  no  more.  The  other  races  con- 
tinued a little  longer.  The  latest  race  to  expire 
was  the  noble  but  unfortunate  Africans.  But 
they,  too,  perished  in  the  end.  At  last,  the  only 
remaining  individual  of  their  number,  and  the 
latest  to  dwell  on  the  earth’s  surface,  a feeble 
individual,  not  more  than  two  or  three  feet  in 
height,  and  differing  from  a wasp  chiefly  in  size, 
having  breathed  out  her  uncomfortable  spirit  on 
this  spot,  became  a prey  to  a few  wretched,  fam- 
ished dogs  and  vultures  ; for  there  were  none  to 
bury  her. 

This  stone  is  erected  on  the  spot  where  she 
expired,  not  so  much  to  her  remembrance — for  she 
was  too  puny  and  ignoble  to  deserve  notice — as 
in  remembrance  of  man  in  general,  once  the 
proud  inhabitant  of  this  world,  and  its  rightful 
and  duly-constituted  lord. 


DOMESTIC  LOYE. 


By  Park  Benjamin. 

When  those  we  love  are  present  to  the  sight, 

When  those  we  love  hear  fond  affection’s  words, 
The  heart  is  cheerful,  as  in  morning  light 
The  merry  song  of  early-wakened  birds  : 

And  oh  ! the  atmosphere  of  home — how  bright 
It  floats  around  us,  when  we  sit  together 
Under  a bower  of  vines  in  summer  weather, 

Or  round  the  hearth-stone  in  a winter’s  night ! 

This  is  a picture,  not  by  fancy  drawn — 

The  eve  of  life  contrasted  with  its  dawn — 

A gray-haired  man — a girl  with  sunny  eyes ; 

He  seems  to  speak,  and  laughing,  she  replies — 

While  father,  mother,  brothers  smile  to  see 

How  fair  their  rose-bud  blooms  beneath  the  parent  tree 


When  those  we  love  are  absent — far  away, 

When  those  we  love  have  met  some  hapless  fate, 
How  pours  the  heart  its  lone  and  plaintive  lay, 

As  the  wood-songster  mourns  her  stolen  mate  ! 
Alas  ! the  summer  bower — how  desolate  ! 

The  winter  hearth — how  dim  its  fire  appears  ! 
While  the  pale  memories  of  by-gone  years 
Around  our  thoughts  like  spectral  shadows  wait. 


276 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


How  changed  the  picture  ! here,  they  all  are  parted 
To  meet  no  more — the  true,  the  gentle-hearted  ! 
The  old  have  journeyed  to  their  bourn — the  young 
Wander,  if  living,  distant  lands  among — 

And  now  w£  rest  our  dearest  hopes  above ; 

For  heavenly  joy  alone  can  match  domestic  love  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 


By  William  Croswell. 


The  glory  of  Lebanon  shall  come  unto  thee,  the  fir  tree,  the  pine  tree 
and  the  box  together,  to  beautify  the  place  of  my  sanctuary  ; and  I will 
make  the  place  of  my  feet  glorious. 

Isaiah. 


The  thickly  woven  boughs  they  wreathe 
Through  every  hallowed  fane, 

A soft  reviving  odor  breathe 
Of  summer’s  gentle  reign  ; 

And  rich  the  ray  of  mild  green  light 
Which,  like  an  emerald’s  glow, 

Comes  struggling  through  the  latticed  height, 
Upon  the  crowds  below. 

Oh  let  the  streams  of  solemn  thought, 

Which  in  those  temples  rise, 

From  deeper  sources  spring  than  aught 
Dependant  on  the  skies. 

Then  though  the  summer’s  glow  departs, 

And  winter’s  withering  chill 
Rests  on  the  cheerless  woods,  our  hearts 
Shall  be  unchanging  still. 


24 


CHILDREN. 


By  R.  C.  Waterston. 


u I love  God  and  every  little  child/5  were  the  sub- 
lime words  of  Richter.  He  looked  upon  children 
with  the  eye  of  faith  : but  they  are  too  often 
looked  upon  merely  with  the  bodily  eye,  and  thus 
their  small  form  and  simplicity  of  look,  conceal 
from  us  the  mighty  springs  of  action  which  are 
hidden  within.  We  cannot,  in  the  child,  even 
see  the  man — much  less  the  angel.  We  cannot 
prophesy,  even  with  regard  to  earthly  progress — 
much  less  the  heavenly.  Think  you  the  mother  of 
Newton,  when  she  pressed  her  babe  to  her  bosom, 
thought  he  was  to  stand  pre-eminent  in  science, 
and  reveal  to  man  the  most  wonderful  laws  of 
the  material  universe?  Think  you  the  mother 
of  Milton,  when  she  sang  lullabies  over  the  cradle 
of  her  infant,  dreamed  that  he  was  to  gain  the 
admiration  of  genius  through  all  time  ? Think 
you  that  those  who  saw  Luther,  at  the  age  of 
fourteen,  begging  his  bread  from  door  to  door, 
imagined  that  he  was  to  be  the  leader  in  one 
of  the  greatest  reformations  the  world  has  ever 
known?  or  did  those  who  saw  Howard  a thin, 


CHILDREN. 


279 


pale,  sickly  boy,  behind  the  counter  of  a grocer’s 
shop  in  London,  suspect  that  he  was  to  be  the 
philanthropist  of  the  world,  and  that  his  name 
would  be  revered  by  every  civilized  nation  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth  ? No — no ; we  cannot  in 
the  child  even  see  the  future  man.  What,  then, 
would  it  be,  if  this  veil  of  sense  were  withdrawn, 
and  we  could  see  the  realities  of  the  spiritual  life, 
stretching  out  in  endless  glory  before  us ; behold- 
ing the  weak  babe  of  the  present,  becoming  the 
wonderful  spirit  of  the  future — dwelling  with 
sainted  martyrs  and  prophets,  and  sitting  down 
with  the  holy  company  of  the  apostles  in  the 
kingdom  of  God ! 

Then  should  we  feel,  that  although  children 
were  destined  to  take  no  important  place  in  the 
view  of  men,  their  place,  however  obscure, 
would  be  important  in  the  sight  of  their  Creator— 
and  however  humble  their  earthly  lot,  if  they  had 
attained  the  Christian  character,  and  been  true  to 
the  precepts  of  Christ,  they  would  at  length  be 
led  triumphantly  through  the  welcoming  hosts  of 
heaven. 

The  same  God  who  moulded  the  sun  and  kin- 
dled the  stars,  watches  the  flight  of  the  insect. 
He  who  balances  the  clouds,  and  hung  the  earth 
upon  nothing,  notices  the  fall  of  the  sparrow.  He 
who  gave  Saturn  his  two  rings,  and  placed  the 
moon,  like  a ball  of  silver,  in  the  broad  arch  of 
heaven,  gives  the  rose  leaf  its  delicate  tint,  and 
made  the  distant  sun  to  nourish  the  violet.  And 


280 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


that  same  Being  watches  alike  the  highest  seraph 
and  the  smallest  child. 

Children  are  common  about  us ; therefore  they 
do  not  awaken  thought.  We  are  too  much  bound 
down  to  the  present,  and  hemmed  in  by  the 
senses.  We  do  not  realize  the  stupendous  desti- 
nies of  a human  soul.  We  do  not  follow  up, 
link  by  link,  the  infinite  chain.  We  speak  of  a 
human  mind  as  of  a common  thing.  We  do  not 
reflect,  or  we  should  see  it  ascending,  stage  above 
stage,  in  the  sublime  theatre  of  worlds;  mounting, 
if  true  to  the  end  of  its  being,  higher  and  higher, 
heaven  above  heaven,  increasing  forever  in  wis- 
dom, and  goodness,  and  power.  We  should  feel 
that  there  was,  in  the  endless  history  of  a child, 
more  to  awaken  wonder  than  in  the  earthly  his- 
tory of  empires.  And  thus  everything  connected 
with  that  history  would  assume  an  immense 
importance.  Nothing  could  be  trifling ; for  all 
would  show  itself  as  connected  with  an  eternal 
existence,  stretching  far,  far  away  into  the  un- 
ending ages  of  futurity. 


TO  A BEREAVED  MOTHER. 


By  John  Quincy  Adams. 


Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
When  infant  innocence  ascends, 

Some  angel  brighter  than  the  rest, 

The  spotless  spirit’s  flight  attends. 

On  wings  of  ecstacy  they  rise, 

Beyond  where  worlds  material  roll ; 
Till  some  fair  sister  of  the  skies 
Receives  the  unpolluted  soul. 

That  inextinguishable  beam, 

With  dust  united  at  our  birth, 

Sheds  a more  dim,  discolored  gleam, 
The  more  it  lingers  upon  earth. 
Closed  in  this  dark  abode  of  clay, 

The  stream  of  glory  faintly  burns  : — 
Not  unobserved,  the  lucid  ray 
To  its  own  native  fount  returns. 

But  when  the  Lord  of  mortal  breath 
Decrees  his  bounty  to  resume, 

And  points  the  silent  shaft  of  death, 
Which  speeds  an  infant  to  the  tomb — 


24* 


282 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


No  passion  fierce,  nor  low  desire, 

Has  quenched  the  radiance  of  the  flame ; 

Back  to  its  God  the  living  fire 
Reverts,  unclouded  as  it  came. 

Fond  mourner  I be  that  solace  thine  ! 

Let  hope  her  healing  charm  impart, 

And  soothe,  with  melodies  divine, 

The  anguish  of  a mother’s  heart. 

O think  ! the  darlings  of  thy  love, 

Divested  of  this  earthly  clod, 

Amid  unnumbered  saints  above, 

Bask  in  the  bosom  of  their  God. 

Of  their  short  pilgrimage  on  earth 
Still  tender  images  remain  : 

Still,  still  they  bless  thee  for  their  birth, 
Still  filial  gratitude  retain. 

Each  anxious  care,  each  rending  sigh, 

That  wrung  for  them  the  parent’s  breast, 

Dwells  on  remembrance  in  the  sky, 

Amid  the  raptures  of  the  blest. 

O’er  thee,  with  looks  of  love,  they  bend  : 
For  thee  the  Lord  of  life  implore  ; 

And  oft  from  sainted  bliss  descend, 

Thy  wounded  quiet  to  restore. 

Oft,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

They  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  bed ; 

Oft,  till  the  morn’s  returning  light, 

Still  watchful  hover  o’er  thy  head. 


TO  A BEREAVED  MOTHER. 


283 


Hark ! in  such  strains  as  saints  employ, 
They  whisper  to  thy  bosom,  peace  ; 
Calm  the  perturbed  heart  to  joy, 

And  bid  the  streaming  sorrow  cease. 
Then  dry,  henceforth,  the  bitter  tear : 
Their  part  and  thine  inverted  see  : — 
Thou  wert  their  guardian  angel  here, 
They  guardian  angels  now  to  thee. 


HINTS  TO  EDITORS. 


By  Wm.  J.  Snelling. 


There  are  three  kinds  of  editors ; the  Upright, 
the  Saving,  and  the  Natural.  Of  these,  the  first 
are  so  few  that  I shall  not  consider  them  at  all, 
and  the  following  remarks  will  refer  to  the  case 
of  the  other  two.  The  name  of  the  second 
speaks  for  itself.  No  saving  editor  is  ever  caned, 
or  pulled  by  the  nose,  nor  even  convicted  of  igno- 
rance, bad  grammar,  libels,  lies,  or  anything  else, 
indeed,  in  particular; — one  good  reason  for  which 
may  be,  that  he  never  writes.  He  copies  every- 
thing, and  keeps  on  the  safe  side. 

The  third  plan  I call  the  Natural,  because  it 
has  been  adopted  by  nineteen  editors  out  of 
twenty ; because  it  meets  with  almost  universal 
acceptance ; and  because,  in  most  cases,  it  is 
really  natural  to  both  editor  and  subscriber.  A 
Natural  editor  has  an  excellent  taste,  a proof  of 
which  is,  that  literary  young  gentlemen  write  for 
him  gratis ; and  his  poetry  and  tales  are  always 
found  in  ladies’  scrap-books.  His  opinions  are 
always  sound,  because  he  adopts  those  of  his 
subscribers.  Aspiring  apprentices  and  other  self- 
taught  geniuses  speak  of  him  as  a man  of  pro- 
found talents,  and  imitate  his  style,  even  to  slips 


HINTS  TO  EDITORS. 


285 


in  grammar.  No  man  is  so  open  to  conviction  as 
your  Natural  editor,  nor  so  ready  to  make  amends 
when  he  has  done  amiss.  If  a correspondent  has 
abused  his  neighbor  in  his  columns,  they  are 
always  open  to  a reply.  No  matter  how  clear  a 
case  may  be ; he  is  willing  to  hear  all  that  can 
be  said  about  it. 

The  Upright  editor  needs  no  advice.  The  fol- 
lowing remarks  are  for  the  benefit  of  the  Savers 
and  Naturals  : 

Never  have  an  opinion  of  your  own.  If  you 
intend  to  criticise  a book,  wait  till  the  North 
American — or  what  is  better,  one  of  the  English 
reviews — shall  have  decided  on  its  merits.  You 
may  then  venture  to  express  your  candid  senti- 
ments. 

Let  your  paper  be  filled,  mostly,  with  tales, 
legends,  &c.  Their  subjects  should  be  love  and 
war.  Any  literary  young  lady,  or  merchant’s 
clerk  can  write  them.  If  you  cannot  get  such 
assistance,  you  must  write  them  yourself,  for 
they  must  by  no  means  be  omitted.  The  matter 
is  of  little  consequence;  the  style  is  all. 

Interlard  your  matter  with  Latin  and  Greek. 
A quotation  has  the  same  effect  on  a truism  that 
a wig  has  on  a British  judge.  If  you  are  totally 
ignorant,  as  I take  it  for  granted  you  are,  the  Dic- 
tionary of  Quotations  will  answer  your  purpose. 
Latin  gives  great  weight  to  a lie. 

Never  fail  to  praise  the  appearance  of  a volun- 
teer company.  There  are  many  common  places 


286 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


that  will  save  the  wear  and  tear  of  invention, 
such  as,  “ The  precision  of  their  evolutions  and 
ppanirnity  with  which  they  handled  their 
ild  have  done  honor  to  veteran 
iptain  Guzzle  proved,  by  the  man- 
ner in  wnich  he  did  honor  to  the  hospitality  of 
his  fellow  citizens,  that  he  was  as  much  at  home 
in  the  salon  as  in  the  field.”  By  these  means 
you  will  make  friends  of  the  whole  corps,  and 
get  one  or  two  subscribers.  If,  by  any  strange 
chance,  you  should  feel  some  spasms  of  con- 
science, you  may  express  your  admiration  in 
ambiguous  terms;  as,  “Europe  never  saw  such 
troops.”  “ Had  General  Packenham  displayed 
such  tactics  at  New  Orleans,  the  result  would 
have  been  more  disastrous.”  The  persons  thus 
noticed  will  not  fail  to  interpret  such  oracular 
sayings  in  their  own  favor. 

Speak  of  great  men  in  such  terms  as  may  be 
construed  by  them  into  expressions  of  respect, 
and  by  others  into  claims  of  intimacy.  Thus, 
“Our  old  and  esteemed  friend,  Judge  Marshall” 
— “ Daniel  Webster,  whom  we  have  known  and 
loved  from  childhood,”  &c.  & c. 

If  you  are  going  round  with  a subscription-list 
in  a country  town,  cajole  the  clods  by  telling 
them  that  the  established  paper  is  ill-conducted, 
or  that  it  is  not  exactly  the  thing  wanted  in  the 
country.  This  will  probably  be  true.  You  are 
not  obliged  to  tell  them,  however,  that  you  are 
no  better  than  the  person  you  wish  to  supplant, 


HINTS  TO  EDITORS. 


287 


though  you  may  be  conscious  of  it.  Let  them 
find  that  out  themselves ; there  is  nothing  like 
experience. 

Treat  all  great  rogues  respectfully.  Speak  of 
their  villanies  as  u extreme  measures  to  which 
they  have  been  compelled  by  necessity.77  Add 
thereto  some  wise  saw,  such  as  “ Guilt  lies  prin- 
cipally in  intention,77  and  “ There  is  no  esti- 
mating the  strength  of  temptation  till  we  are 
exposed  to  it.77  In  this  way  you  will  gain  the 
reputation  of  a good  feeling  man.  As  for  poor 
rogues,  you  may  treat  them  as  you  please,  pro- 
vided it  be  not  with  too  much  lenity.  The  best 
of  them,  unquestionably,  deserves  the  gallows. 

Take  care  how  you  abuse  any  private  indi- 
vidual. Public  characters,  provided  you  have 
nothing  to  expect  from  them  or  their  parties,  are 
fair  game.  You  need  not  care  what  the  quality 
of  your  censure  or  praise  be,  but  let  there  be  a 
sufficient  quantity.  Lay  it  on  thick;  some  of  it 
will  stick. 

There  are  several  kinds  of  persons  who  may 
be  abused,  but  it  is  most  safe  to  abuse  a truly 
good  and  great  man.  It  is  ten  to  one  he  never 
hears  of  it ; and  if  he  should,  he  will  suffer  your 
insignificance  to  be  your  protection.  Whatever 
you  say  of  him,  repeat  it  often.  Repetition 
makes  many  a fable  pass  for  truth. 

Speak  respectfully  of  poets.  They  are  veri- 
tably an  irritable  race.  The  truly  good  ones 
care  little  for  criticism;  but  the  bad  ones  feel  it 


288 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


to  the  quick,  because  they  are  conscious  of  de- 
serving it.  Then,  they  all  make  common  cause. 
Their  own  enmity  would  be  of  little  consequence, 
but  they  have  friends  and  admirers ; so  true  it  is, 
that  let  a man  be  never  so  foolish,  he  will  still 
find  greater  fools  than  himself.  I need  not  tell 
you,  that  among  these  will  be  some  of  your  sub- 
scribers. It  is  a pleasure,  indeed,  to  demolish  a 
poet,  but  it  is  a dear  pleasure  at  ten  or  twenty 
dollars. 

You  may  laugh  at  honor,  scoff  at  honesty,  and 
revile  religion,  but  never  call  any  native  author  a 
dunce.  It  may  be  that  he  is  so ; and  probably 
he  is ; but  then  there  are  eleven  millions  of 
dunces  in  the  country,  each  of  whom  feels  your 
remark  as  a personal  reflection. 

Fail  not  to  insert  in  your  columns  all  the 
bloody  murders  and  executions  you  can  find. 
Sympathy  with  the  criminals  and  sufferers  will 
increase  the  length  of  your  subscription  list. 
The  gallows  is  what  all  may,  and  some  must, 
come  to. 

If  you  have  any  original  ideas,  husband  them 
with  the  strictest  economy.  It  is  truly  astonish- 
ing how  soon  such  a stock  may  be  exhausted. 
Many  a man  is  a very  agreeable  companion  for 
half  an  hour,  and  very  much  the  reverse  all  the 
rest  of  his  life. 

If  you  have  as  many  thoughts  as  will  last  a 
year,  you  will  do  well  enough.  By  the  end  of  it, 
the  ideas  first  hung  out  will  have  been  suffi- 


HINTS  TO  EDITORS. 


289 


ciently  aired,  and  may  be  used  again  without 
much  risk  of  recognition. 

If  you  can,  by  any  means,  get  admittance 
where  two  or  three  men  of  real  learning  and 
talent  resort,  you  will  need  no  capital  of  your 
own.  Listen  to  them  attentively,  and  pick  up 
the  crumbs  of  conversation.  If  you  have  a bad 
memory,  you  can  note  them  down.  You  can 
bring  out  what  you  have  heard,  in  a few  days, 
as  your  own  ; and  after  the  ideas  have  passed 
through  your  hands,  it  is  not  likely  that  their 
parents  will  know  them  again.  If  they  should, 
they  will  probably  be  ashamed  to  claim  them. 

You  will  sometimes  find  yourself  under  the 
necessity  of  stealing.  In  such  cases,  never  steal 
from  a brother  Natural.  Every  Natural  is  on 
the  look-out  for  literary  larceners,  and  you  will 
certainly  be  detected.  Steal  from  an  Upright 
editor.  He  can  afford  you  an  alms.  Moreover, 
it  is  likely  that  he  will  never  discover  your 
depredation ; and  if  he  should,  he  will  not  notice 
it. 

Too  much  cannot  be  said  touching  the  renova- 
tion of  a brain  exhausted,  or  barren  of  ideas.  I 
would  earnestly  recommend  to  you  an  extensive 
course  of  stall  reading.  The  old,  forgotten  Eng- 
lish authors  will  furnish  you  with  thoughts  ad 
libitum ; nay,  with  whole  paragraphs.  Six  years 
ago,  Burton’s  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  was  the 
comforter  of  distressed  editors,  but  it  is  now  too 
hackneyed  to  venture  upon.  St.  Evremond, 
25 


290 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


however,  and  Davenant,  remain  almost  entire. 
Beaumont,  and  Fletcher,  and  Ben  Johnson  will 
supply  all  your  poetry. 

Old  sermons  will  serve  you  better  than  learn- 
ing and  genius  could.  Nobody  reads  them,  and 
you  may  extract  their  pith  without  the  least 
scruple.  Beware,  however,  of  Tillotson  and  Blair. 

Speaking  of  a popular  orator,  say  that  he 
reminds  you  of  the  best  days  of  Rome  and 
Athens.  Though  you  may  never  have  read  a 
line  of  Cicero  or  Demosthenes,  it  will  appear,  by 
implication,  that  you  have. 

If  you  wish  to  get  a character  for  indepen- 
dence, attack  some  work  on  a subject  that  interests 
nobody  but  its  author.  You  may  demolish  such 
a person  without  scruple. 

Last,  but  not  least — remember  that  the  sole 
end  of  your  creation  is  to  eat,  drink,  and  make 
money.  In  order  to  fulfil  it,  you  must  forget  that 
you  are  an  individual,  and  consider  yourself  as 
the  representative  of  your  subscribers,  and  those 
who  are  likely  to  be  your  subscribers,  in  every- 
thing. You  must  have  no  thought,  no  feeling, 
no  apparent  interest  but  theirs ; at  least  you  must 
make  them  think  you  have  no  other.  If  you 
observe  the  directions  here  laid  down,  they  will 
probably  send  you  to  the  General  Court,  and 
your  ghost  will  laugh  when  it  reads  the  lie  on 
your  grave-stone. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 


[Illustration  of  a Picture  by  Doughty.] 


By  H.  F.  Harrington. 


Pause  ! — holy  quietness  pervades  the  scene  ; 

The  very  air  is  slumbering  and  still ; 

The  silvery  haze,  that  far,  the  boughs  between, 
With  filmy  curtain  shrouds  the  distant  hill, 

No  gentlest  zephyr  stirs.  Hark  ! from  the  rill 
Steals  on  the  ear,  soft,  murmuring  melody  ! 

And  oh ! how  does  the  longing  spirit  will 
Prone  in  yon  tiny  boat,  at  ease  to  lie, 

As  with  its  snow-white  sail  it  skims  the  forests  by. 

The  angel  of  dread  winter  hath  been  here, 

But  not  in  anger.  As  he  sped  along, 

Borne  on  the  chilling  wind,  he  bade  appear 
A thousand  varied  hues  the  trees  among. 

What  magic  beauty  hath  his  presence  flung 
Round  every  leaf  that  quivers  in  the  dell, 

Or  shrub  that  to  the  mountain-side  hath  clung : 

And  the  bright  scene  the  calm  lake  mirrors  well, 
As  if  within  its  depths  were  wove  some  goblin  spell. 


292 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Here  the  sweet  stream,  that  through  the  grassy  vale 
In  smooth  unbroken  current  gently  flows, 

Leaps  o’er  the  rock,  and  tells  its  happy  tale, 

Then  gathers  up  its  waters  in  repose. 

Oh  ! well  that  deep,  clear  pool  the  angler  knows  ! 

And  oft  he  cometh  in  the  lowering  day, 

Stealing  along  the  bank’s  green  margin  close, 
Moving  the  mimic  fly  in  careful  play, 

To  entice  with  seeming  bait  his  unsuspecting  prey. 

Peace  breathes  around  ! The  sportsman  here  hath 
come, 

And  thrown  him,  languid,  on  the  bank  to  rest ; 
Content,  in  such  a spot,  no  more  to  roam, 

Joy  stirs  within  him,  and  he  feels  him  blest. 

And  I would  come,  with  anxious  cares  opprest, 

Apart  from  all  the  vanities  of  life, 

And  pausing  here — by  nature’s  hand  carest — 

Gazing  on  all  around  with  beauty  rife, 

Muse,  with  the  world  forgot — its  sorrows  and  its  strife. 


CHANGES. 


By  J.  O.  Rockwell. 


The  billows  run  along  in  gold 
Over  the  yielding  main, 

And  when  upon  the  shore  unrolled, 
They  gather  up  again  ; 

They  get  themselves  a different  form, 
These  children  of  the  wind, 

And,  or  in  sunlight  or  in  storm, 
Leave  the  green  land  behind. 

Life’s  billows  on  life’s  changing  sea 
Come  alway  to  Death’s  shore, 
Some  with  a calm  content,  and  free, 
Some  with  a hollow  roar; 

They  break  and  are  no  longer  seen, 
Yet  still  defying  time, 

Divided,  and  of  different  mien, 

They  roll  from  clime  to  clime. 

All  water-courses  find  the  main ; 

The  main  sinks  back  to  earth  ; 

Life  settles  in  the  grave ; — again 
The  grave  hath  life  and  birth ; 


25  # 


294 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Flowers  bloom  above  the  sleeping  dust, 
Grass  grows  from  scattered  clay ; 

And  thus  from  death  the  spirit  must 
To  life  find  back  its  way. 

Life  hath  its  range  eternally, 

Like  water,  changing  forms ; 

The  mists  go  upward  from  the  sea, 
And  gather  into  storms  ; 

The  dew  and  rain  come  down  again, 
To  fresh  the  drooping  land ; 

So  doth  this  life  exalt  and  wane, 

And  alter,  and  expand. 


TO  THE  BUNKER  HILL  VETERANS. 


By  Daniel  Webster. 


Venerable  men!  you  have  come  down  to  us  from 
a former  generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously 
lengthened  out  your  lives,  that  you  might  behold 
this  joyous  day.  You  are  now  where  you  stood 
fifty  years  ago,  this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers 
and  your  neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the 
strife  for  your  country.  Behold,  how  altered ! 
The  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads ; 
the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet;  but  ail  else, 
how  changed  ! You  hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile 
cannon ; you  see  now  no  mixed  volumes  of  smoke 
and  flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The 
ground  strewed  with  the  dead  and  dying;  the 
impetuous  charge ; the  steady  and  successful  re- 
pulse ; the  loud  call  to  repeated  assault ; the 
summoning  of  all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  resist- 
ance; a thousand  bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly 
bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever  of  terror  there 
may  be  in  war  and  death ; — all  these  you  have 
witnessed,  but  you  witness  them  no  more.  All 
is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis,  its 


296 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled  with 
wives  and  children  and  countrymen  in  distress 
and  terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions 
for  the  issue  of  the  combat,  have  presented  you 
to-day  with  the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  popula- 
tion, come  out  to  welcome  and  greet  you  with  an 
universal  jubilee.  Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a feli- 
city of  position  appropriately  lying  at  the  foot  of 
this  mount,  and  seeming  fondly  to  cling  around 
it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance  to  you,  but  your 
country’s  own  means  of  distinction  and  defence. 
All  is  peace ; and  God  has  granted  you  this  sight 
of  your  country’s  happiness,  ere  you  slumber  in 
the  grave  forever.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold 
and  to  partake  the  reward  of  your  patriotic  toils ; 
and  he  has  allowed  us,  your  sons  and  country- 
men, to  meet  you  here,  and  in  the  name  of  the 
present  generation,  in  the  name  of  your  country, 
in  the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank  you  ! 

But  alas  ! you  are  not  all  here!  Time  and  the 
sword  have  thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Put- 
nam, Stark,  Brooks,  Read,  Pomeroy,  Bridge!  our 
eyes  seek  for  you  in  vain  amid  this  broken  band. 
You  are  gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only 
to  your  country  in  her  grateful  remembrance,  and 
your  own  bright  example.  But  let  us  not  too 
much  grieve,  that  you  have  met  the  common  fate 
of  men.  You  lived,  at  least,  long  enough  to 
know  that  your  work  had  been  nobly  and  suc- 
cessfully accomplished.  You  lived  to  see  your 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  VETERANS. 


297 


country’s  independence  established,  and  to  sheathe 
your  swords  from  war.  On  the  light  of  Liberty 
you  saw  arise  the  light  of  Peace,  like 

11  another  morn, 

Risen  on  mid  noon  3 ” 

and  the  sky  on  Avhich  you  closed  your  eyes  was 
cloudless. 

But — ah  ! — Him  ! the  first  great  martyr  in  this 
great  cause  ! Him  ! the  premature  victim  of  his 
own  self-devoting  heart ! Him!  the  head  of  our 
civil  councils,  and  the  distinguished  leader  of  our 
military  bands ; whom  nothing  brought  hither, 
but  the  unquenchable  fire  of  his  own  spirit;  Him ! 
cut  off  by  Providence,  in  the  hour  of  overwhelm- 
ing anxiety  and  thick  gloom ; falling,  ere  he  saw 
the  star  of  his  country  rise ; pouring  out  his  gen- 
erous blood,  like  water,  before  he  knew  whether 
it  would  fertilize  a land  of  freedom  or  of  bondage! 
how  shall  I struggle  with  the  emotions  that  stifle 
the  utterance  of  thy  name  ! Our  poor  work  may 
perish  ; but  thine  shall  endure  ! This  monument 
may  moulder  away;  the  solid  ground  it  rests 
upon  may  sink  down  to  a level  with  the  sea;  but 
thy  memory  shall  not  fail ! Wheresoever  among 
men  a heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the 
transports  of  patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations 
shall  be  to  claim  kindred  with  thy  spirit ! 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  does  not 
permit  us  to  confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympa- 


298 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


tliies  to  those  fearless  spirits  who  hazarded  or  lost 
their  lives  on  this  consecrated  spot.  We  have 
the  happiness  to  rejoice  here  in  the  presence  of  a 
most  worthy  representation  of  the  survivors  of 
the  whole  Revolutionary  Army. 

Veterans  ! you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a 
well-fought  field.  You  bring  with  you  marks 
of  honor  from  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  from 
Yorktown,  Camden,  Bennington  and  Saratoga. 
Veterans  of  half  a century  ! when,  in  your 
youthful  days,  you  put  everything  at  hazard  in 
your  country's  cause,  good  as  that  cause  was, 
and  sanguine  as  youth  is,  still  your  fondest  hopes 
did  not  stretch  onward  to  an  hour  like  this  ! At 
a period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably  have 
expected  to  arrive — at  a moment  of  national  pros- 
perity such  as  you  never  could  have  foreseen — 
you  are  now  met,  here,  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of 
old  soldiers,  and  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  an 
universal  gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heav- 
ing breasts  inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an 
unmixed  joy.  I perceive  that  a tumult  of  con- 
tending feelings  rushes  upon  you.  The  images 
of  the  dead,  as  well  as  the  persons  of  the  living, 
throng  to  your  embraces.  The  scene  overwhelms 
you,  and  I turn  from  it.  May  the  Father  of  all 
mercies  smile  upon  your  declining  years,  and 
bless  them ! And  when  you  shall  have  here 
exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  VETERANS.  299 

more  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so 
often  extended  to  give  succor  in  adversity,  or 
grasped  in  the  exultation  of  victory, — then  look 
abroad  into  this  lovely  land,  which  your  young 
valor  defended,  and  mark  the  happiness  with 
which  it  is  filled;  yea,  look  abroad  into  the  whole 
earth,  and  see  what  a name  you  have  contributed 
to  give  your  country,  and  what  a praise  you 
have  added  to  freedom ; and  then  rejoice  in  the 
sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam  upon  your 
last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  man- 
kind ! 


SONG  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


By  T.  Gray,  Jr. 


We  meet  but  to  part,  love — we  part  but  to  meet, 

When  our  foes  shall  be  trodden  like  dust  at  our  feet. 
No  fetters,  no  tyrants  our  souls  shall  enslave, 

While  the  ocean  shall  roll,  or  the  harvest  shall  wave. 
We  go — to  return  when  the  strife  shall  be  done — 
When  the  field  shall  be  fought,  and  the  battle  be  wTon  ; — 
When  the  sceptre  is  smitten,  and  broken  the  chain, 

We  come  back  in  freedom,  or  come  not  again. 

Yon  red-robed  battalions  are  plumed  for  the  fray, 

And  their  banners  dance  high  o’er  their  martial  array ; 
To-morrow  still  redder  in  blood  shall  they  lie 
On  the  spot  where  they  stand  ; — we  will  conquer  or  die. 
Few,  faithful,  and  fearless,  we  bend  to  the  fight, 

And  England’s  best  legions  shall  quail  at  our  might ; 
The  rush  of  our  foemen  unshaken  we  stem  ; 

As  the  rock  meets  the  ocean-wrave,  so  meet  we  them. 

Ours  are  no  hirelings  trained  to  the  fight, 

With  cymbal  and  clarion,  all  glittering  and  bright ; 

No  prancing  of  chargers,  no  martial  display, 

No  war-trump  is  heard  from  our  silent  array. 


SONG  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


301 


O’er  the  proud  heads  of  freemen  our  star-banner  waves  ; 
Men  firm  as  their  mountains,  and  still  as  their  graves. 
To-morrow  shall  pour  out  their  life-blood  like  rain ; 

We  come  back  in  triumph,  or  come  not  again. 

No  fearing,  no  doubting,  thy  soldier  shall  know, 

When  here  stands  his  country,  and  yonder  her  foe ; 
One  look  at  the  bright  sun,  one  prayer  to  the  sky, 

One  glance  where  our  banner  floats  glorious  on  high ; 
Then  on,  as  the  young  lion  bounds  on  his  prey ; — 

Let  the  sword  flash  on  high,  fling  the  scabbard  away  ; 
Roll  on  like  the  thunder-bolt  over  the  plain  ; 

We  come  back  in  glory,  or  come  not  again. 

Sweep  them  ofF,  as  the  storm  sweeps  the  chaff  on  its 
breath, 

Where  bows  the  red  harvest,  whose  reaper  is  Death ! 
Be  strong  as  the  earthquake,  and  swift  as  the  wind ; 
Carry  vengeance  before  us,  and  freedom  behind ; 

We  shed  not  vain  tears  when  the  warrior  is  lowr, 

Be  his  soul  to  his  God,  so  his  breast ’s  to  the  foe  ; 

Our  tears  are  the  red  drops,  the  life-blood  that  drain, 
When  we  come  back  with  vengeance,  or  come  not  again  ! 


26 


PHILIP  OF  MOUNT  HOPE. 


By  J.  O.  Sargent. 


Away  ! away  ! I will  not  hear 

Of  aught  but  death  or  vengeance  now 
By  the  eternal  skies,  I swear 

My  knee  shall  never  learn  to  bow ! 

I will  not  hear  a word  of  peace, 

Nor  grasp  in  friendly  grasp  a hand, 
Linked  to  the  pale -browed  stranger  race, 
That  work  the  ruin  of  our  land. 

Before  their  coming,  we  had  ranged 
Our  forests  and  our  uplands,  free ; 

Still  let  us  keep  unsold,  unchanged, 

The  heritage  of  liberty. 

As  free  as  roll  the  chainless  streams, 
Still  let  us  roam  our  ancient  woods ; 
As  free  as  break  the  morning  beams, 
That  light  our  mountain  solitudes. 

Touch  not  the  hand  they  stretch  to  you ; 

The  falsely  proffered  cup,  put  by  ; 
Will  you  believe  a coward  true  ? 

Or  taste  the  poison-draught  to  die  ? 


PHILIP  OF  MOUNT  HOPE. 


303 


Their  friendship  is  a lurking  snare, 

Their  honor  but  an  idle  breath ; 

Their  smile,  the  smile  that  traitors  wear  ; 
Their  love  is  hate,  their  life  is  death. 

Plains  which  your  infant  feet  have  roved, 
Broad  streams  you  skimmed  in  light  canoe, 

Green  woods  and  glens  your  fathers  loved — 
Whom  smile  they  for,  if  not  for  you  ? 

And  could  your  fathers’  spirits  look 

From  lands  where  deathless  verdure  waves, 

Nor  curse  the  craven  hearts  that  brook 
To  barter  for  a nation’s  graves  ? 

Then  raise  once  more  the  warrior  song, 

That  tells  despair  and  death  are  nigh ; 

Let  the  loud  summons  peal  along, 

Rending  the  arches  of  the  sky. 

And  till  your  last  white  foe  shall  kneel, 

And  in  his  coward  pangs  expire — 

Sleep— but  to  dream  of  brand  and  steel, 
Wake— but  to  deal  in  blood  and  fire  ! 


PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE. 


By  Wm.  M.  Rogers. 


Truth  is  that  view  of  things  which  God  himself 
takes.  Science  is  truth  reduced  to  a system.  In 
each  and  all  of  its  branches,  it  has  yielded  rich 
blessings  to  man.  You  have  only  to  look  about 
you,  and  note  the  familiar  things  essential  to  our 
comfort  and  prosperity,  to  be  satisfied  that  we 
owe  much,  very  much,  to  the  intelligence  of  past 
generations  of  men;  a debt  which  is  best  paid 
by  adding  something  ourselves  to  the  stock  of 
human  knowledge,  and  transmitting  it  through 
those  who  shall  succeed  us,  with  the  accumula- 
tions of  century  after  century,  on  to  the  last  of 
our  race.  It  is  to  the  past  and  present  develop- 
ments of  science,  that  we  are  to  refer  the  pros- 
perity, with  the  promise  of  an  indefinite  increase, 
which  meets  us,  look  where  we  may.  Go  and 
stand  upon  the  high  places  of  the  city ; and 
while  the  hum  of  industry  comes  up  to  you, 
ceaseless  as  the  murmur  of  the  hive,  observe  the 
crowded  dwellings  of  men  stretching  away  in 
fair  proportions  to  the  distance ; note  the  swelling 
sails  of  commerce,  and  the  fire-sped  cars,  bearing 


PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE. 


305 


to  and  fro  the  riches  of  milder  climes,  and  the 
fertility  of  our  own  soil.  Now  what  power  was 
it  which  tore  the  granite  from  its  bed,  where  it 
had  rested  since  chaos,  and  piled  it  up  a well- 
ordered  habitation  for  man?  What  knowledge 
guides  that  bark  on  its  trackless,  shoreless  way, 
amid  the  waste  of  waters?  What  hand  has 
penetrated  the  mountains,  dragged  the  rugged 
ore  from  its  concealment,  fused  it  into  shapes  to 
suit  its  purposes,  and  laid  it  down  as  a pathway 
for  man,  while  it  compels  fire  and  water  to  bear 
him  on  it,  with  a speed  which  outstrips  the  flight 
of  the  bird?  These  are  the  triumphs  of  science. 
She  makes  nature  tributary  to  man.  She  has 
thrown  her  spell  over  the  world  for  his  benefit. 
She  has  muttered  the  charm  upon  the  rivers  of 
the  land,  and  forced  them  to  work  at  the  wheel 
like  a bondman,  and  to  speed  the  revolutions  of 
the  lathe  and  the  spindle.  She  has  vexed  the 
bosom  of  the  earth,  and  forced  the  unwilling  soil 
to  render  up  her  treasures,  to  store  his  granaries, 
to  furnish  his  table,  and  to  fill  his  heart  with 
gladness.  Science  does  not  stint  man  to  the 
blessings  of  his  own  skies : she  levels  the  forest, 
and  fashions  it  to  her  mind,  until  the  oak  floats 
a gallant  ship  upon  the  waters,  as  on  its  element ; 
she  clothes  it  with  wings,  and  sends  it  across  the 
ocean,  compelling  the  very  stars  to  tell  the  mari- 
ner his  way  whithersoever  he  would  go,  that  she 
may  pour  into  the  lap  of  man  the  blessings  of 
other  climes,  of  which  nature  has  been  chary  to  his 
26* 


30G 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


own.  Thus  she  binds  the  families  of  the  earth 
together  in  the  interests  of  commerce,  enriching 
each  with  the  good  of  all.  These  are  the  tri- 
umphs of  science. 

And  thus  has  she  brought  us,  step  by  step,  in- 
vention after  invention,  to  the  present  state  of 
civilized  man.  Nor  does  she  close  her  labors 
here.  She  comes  to  man  as  a bride,  with  the 
treasures  of  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  sky  for 
her  dower ; but  it  is  not  in  her  dower,  rich  and 
divine  though  it  be,  that  her  chief  excellence 
consists.  She  is  to  be  loved  and  prized  for  herself, 
as  well  as  the  blessings  she  brings  with  her ; and 
they  usually  woo  her  most  successfully,  who  seek 
her  with  no  mercenary  aims.  He  who  cultivates 
an  acquaintance  with  the  world  in  which  he 
lives,  can  never  be  alone.  What  is  solitude,  but 
the  emptiness  of  an  ignorant  mind?  He  who 
can  converse  with  nature,  and  ponder  on  the 
varied  mysteries  she  brings  to  his  notice,  and 
by  which  she  fills  his  heart  with  gratitude  and 
delight,  can  never  be  alone.  He  needs  no  com- 
panionship. Let  him  wander  forth  by  hill,  and 
brook,  and  grove — no  rhyming,  love-sick,  dream- 
ing enthusiast,  but  a shrewd  observer  of  facts,  a 
searcher  after  principles  and  laws — and  nature 
has  enough  to  occupy,  to  interest  and  improve,  in 
her  most  common  forms,  without  sending  him  to 
libraries  for  knowledge.  Where  the  vulgar  eye 
can  see  only  a shapeless  mass  of  rock,  revealing 
nothing  to  the  careless  and  ignorant,  he  will 


PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE. 


307 


detect  a chronicle  of  the  past,  and  tracing  it  to  its 
native  quarry,  gather  something  from  it  of  the 
stupendous  changes  which  have  transpired  in  our 
globe.  While  others  pass  by  the  insect,  unheeded 
in  its  toil,  he  will  stoop  to  watch  its  labors,  dis- 
cover its  habits,  and  admire  the  divine  wisdom 
which  has  fitted  it  to  its  sphere.  The  very  clod, 
which  is  trod  unnoticed  by  the  common  foot,  in 
the  organization  of  the  humble  herb  upon  it,  the 
root,  the  stem,  the  circulation  of  its  juices,  and 
the  provision  for  continuing  its  kind,  is  as  a 
page  in  God’s  book,  where  he  has  stereotyped  his 
power,  his  wisdom,  and  his  goodness.  He  cannot 
be  a solitary  being.  The  universe  is  open  before 
him,  and  he  sees  everywhere  the  majesty  and 
loveliness  of  a higher  nature.  Where  others  can 
perceive  nothing,  learn  nothing,  order,  beauty,  and 
law  are  revealed  to  him.  Where  others  can  see 
but  a stone,  he  sees  a God,  and  worships.  He 
cannot  be  alone ; for,  step  by  step,  he  learns  to 
understand  what  a God.  only  could  create. 

Let  us  take  a single  instance  of  the  unexpected 
and  curious  facts  which  meet  us,  even  in  the 
humble  branches  of  science.  Men  generally  sup- 
pose that  war,  as  a system,  is  confined  to  the  hu- 
man race.  Yet  it  comes  to  us  from  competent 
witnesses  of  the  facts,  that  various  species  of  the 
ants  have  their  wars,  offensive  and  defensive; 
and  with  a method  that  would  not  shame  the 
better  wisdom  of  man.  Some  ant-hill,  where  the 
lust  of  conquest  inspires  to  high  deeds,  has  dis- 


308 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


covered  a dangerous  neighbor  or  an  easy  prey,  at 
the  distance  of  a few  rods,  and  sends  out  its 
thousands  to  the  strife.  They  are  preceded  by 
the  advance  guard,  who  reconnoitre  the  enemy, 
and  keep  up  a constant  intercourse  by  orderlies 
and  aids  with  the  main  body,  and  these  with  the 
parent  hive.  But  they  do  not  approach  unob- 
served. The  threatened  city  is  quick  with  mov- 
ing life,  and  its  chivalry  advance  to  meet  the 
enemy,  and  fight  for  home  and  country ! The 
combatants  are  ranged  in  opposite  lines,  with 
an  interval  between.  Before  the  general  onset, 
sometimes  an  ant,  with  larger  soul  than  the  com- 
mon herd,  advances  from  the  ranks.  It  is  under- 
stood as  a challenge  to  single  combat;  and  he  is 
met  by  one  of  equal  spirit.  They  meet,  seize 
each  other  by  the  mandibles,  and  struggle  for  the 
mastery.  The  tide  of  war  comes  rushing  on, 
and  they  are  lost  amid  the  thousands  of  combat- 
ants. To  whichever  side  the  victory  incline,  the 
repulsed  despatch  expresses  for  reinforcements. 
They  arrive,  and  the  battle  is  restored.  Wo  to 
the  wretch  that  is  taken  prisoner.  He  is  dragged 
away  to  death,  or  hopeless  slavery ; for  domestic 
servitude  is  not  confined  to  the  human  race.  The 
assailed,  generally  the  weaker  party,  unwilling 
to  trust  to  the  issue  of  the  battle,  make  instant 
preparation  for  the  worst.  Their  most  precious 
things,  with  their  young,  are  hurried  out  of  dan- 
ger, and  sometimes,  almost  ere  the  day  is  lost, 
they  have  laid  the  foundations  of  another  com- 


PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE. 


309 


mon wealth,  where  they  hope  the  rage  of  war  will 
not  seek  them  out.  Doubtless  they  have  their 
Thermopylae — their  Austerlitz — their  W at erloo. 
The  spirit  of  a Bonaparte  has  doubtless  dwarfed 
itself  to  the  bosom  of  an  ant. 

This  study  is  pure  and  elevating.  Science  is 
the  knowledge  of  the  works  of  God.  Wherever 
we  turn — above,  around,  beneath,  within — he 
has  been  there  before  us.  From  worlds  to  in- 
sects, he  is  the  present  God.  The  harmony  of 
the  heavens  proclaims  his  power,  his  wisdom, 
and  his  goodness ; and  if  we  seek  the  aids  of  sci- 
ence, and  place  a leaf  or  a drop  of  water  under 
the  microscope,  we  are  taught  the  same  lesson  in 
smaller  characters,  by  the  living  creatures  which 
people  them.  If  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
higher  wonders  of  the  heavens,  we  feel  our  insig- 
nificance, and  fear  we  shall  be  overlooked  by  our 
Maker,  we  shall  regain  our  balance,  when  we 
see  he  does  not  forget  to  supply  the  wants  of 
creatures  so  minute  that  the  oak-leaf  is  as  broad 
as  a forest,  and  the  drop  as  a sea  for  their  habi- 
tation. Mungo  Park  had  been  plundered  by  rob- 
bers, and  left  almost  naked,  some  five  hundred 
miles  from  the  sea-coast,  in  the  interior  of  Africa, 
sick,  surrounded  by  wild  beasts,  and  men  hardly 
less  savage.  As  he  contemplated  the  gloomy 
prospect,  despair  of  final  success  almost  mastered 
him.  He  says — uAt  this  moment,  painful  as  my 
reflections  were,  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  a 
small  moss  in  fructification  caught  my  eye.  The 


310 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


whole  plant  was  not  larger  than  the  top  of  one 
of  my  fingers,  yet  I could  not  contemplate  the 
delicate  conformation  of  its  leaves  and  capsules, 
without  admiration.  Can  that  Being,  thought  I, 
who  planted,  watered,  and  brought  to  perfection 
in  this  wilderness  a thing  so  worthless,  look  with 
unconcern  upon  the  situation  and  sufferings  of  a 
creature  formed  in  his  image?  Reflections  like 
these  would  not  suffer  me  to  despair ; and  disre- 
garding both  hunger  and  fatigue,  I travelled  for- 
ward, assured  that  relief  was  at  hand ; and  I was 
not  disappointed.”  Yes,  the  flowers  of  the  earth 
are  the  small  print  in  which  God  writes  many  a 
lesson  for  our  instruction. 

The  facts  we  have  alluded  to  are  a few,  among 
numberless  others,  equally  worthy  of  attention. 
No  man  can  gi  ve  himself  to  the  study  of  nature, 
without  finding  food  for  his  mind.  He  has  the 
knowledge  which  shall  delight  his  youth,  grace 
his  manhood,  and,  next  to  religion,  cheer  his  age. 
And  more : in  commencing  with  nature,  he  ac- 
quires a growing  resemblance  to  nature  herself, 
in  a mind  well-balanced,  peaceful,  happy.  The 
very  agitation  of  his  spirit  will  be  but  the  natural 
effort  of  a spirit  under  the  control  of  sound  laws, 
to  regain  its  equilibrium.  The  book  of  nature, 
too,  is  but  the  preface  to  the  book  of  grace.  Or 
rather,  it  is  the  first  volume  of  the  revelation  of 
himself  which  God  has  made,  with  the  promise 
of  a second.  In  itself,  it  is  incomplete* — a frag« 
ment — a beginning  without  an  end.  It  finds  its 


PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE. 


311 


completion  in  the  Bible.  The  book  of  nature 
prompts  us  to  inquiries  which  find  no  answer  in 
its  own  pages  - but  it  refers  us  to  another,  fuller, 
clearer  revelation  of  truth,  for  an  exposition  of 
the  great  end  of  our  being,  and  the  means  of  at- 
taining it.  The  book  o nature,  by  its  assertion 
of  the  same  truths  with  the  Bible,  directs  us  to 
God  as  their  common  origin,  and  prepares  us  to 
receive  in  faith  the  higher  truths  of  the  scriptures, 
unrevealed  in  nature  itself. 

These  remarks  cannot  be  better  closed  than  in 
the  language  of  Kepler.  He  says — “As  men  en- 
joy dainties  at  a feast,  so  do  wise  souls  gain  a 
taste  of  heavenly  things,  when  they  ascend  from 
their  schools  to  the  universe,  and  there  look 
about  them.  He  who  has  discerned  the  frailty 
of  human  affairs,  will  aspire  heavenward  from 
earth.  He  will  begin  to  set  le  ;s  value  on  what 
appeared  to  him  most  excellent.  He  will  esteem 
God’s  works  above  all  things,  and  in  the  contem- 
plation of  them  he  will  find  a pure  enjoyment. 
Great  Artist  of  the  world  ! I look  with  wonder 
on  the  works  of  thine  hands,  and  in  the  midst, 
the  sun,  the  dispenser  of  light  and  life.  I see  the 
moon  and  stars  strewn  over  the  infinite  field  of 
space.  Father  of  the  world  ! what  moved  thee 
thus  to  exalt  a poor  weak  little  creature  of  earth 
so  high,  that  he  stands  in  light  a far-ruling  king, 
almost  a God ; for  he  thinks  thy  thoughts  after 
thee”  Yes,  we  see  what  God  has  made,  how  he 
has  made  them,  and  why ; and  we  think  his 
thoughts  after  him ! 


SOLITARY  HOURS. 


By  Geo.  W.  Light. 


No  pleasure  in  the  calm  and  peaceful  hours, 

When  the  delusive  streams  of  worldly  joy 
Afar  have  flown  ? 

No  pleasure  in  the  lofty  emerald  bowers, 

Where  nature’s  melody  breaks  forth — the  wide 
Green  woods — alone  ? 

It  is  not  so.  The  soul  may  there  expand, 

And  feel,  in  melancholy’s  wild  retreats, 

A joy  that,  when 

It  leaves  the  heart,  brings  not  an  icy  hand 

To  sweep  its  feeble  strings,  and  oAuick  destroy 
Its  rest  again. 

Ay — when  I wander  in  the  lonely  grove, 

And  gaze  upon  the  blue  and  silent  lake, 

I there  can  feel 

That  blessed  charm  come  o’er  my  breast,  and  prove 
A healing  balm — and  on  my  troubled  heart 
Peace  calmly  steal. 


SOLITARY  HOURS. 


313 


And  though  my  tears  oft  mingle  with  the  dew 

That  on  the  morning’s  fresh  and  blooming  flowers 
Pearl-like  doth  dwell, 

Light  dissipates  my  gloom  ; a brilliant  hue, 

A rainbow  arch,  gleams  over  pleasure’s  grave ; 
And  none  can  tell 

Of  peace  more  soothing  to  the  weary  soul, 

Or  leaving  brighter  sunset-traces,  when 
Itself  has  fled : 

Oh ! that  to  me,  when  I shall  reach  my  goal, 

That  glorious  light  may  find  its  way  again, 
Beyond  the  dead  ! 


27 


NEWS-MAKING. 


By  S.  II.  Jenks. 


Can  anything,  dead  or  alive,  more  pitiably  un- 
happy be  conceived,  than  a jaded  scribbler  for 
the  public  press — sitting  down  to  his  task  at  the 
last  moment,  with  an  aching  head  and  an  empty 
stomach — or  vice  versa , which  is  exactly  the 
same  in  effect?  Imagine  the  forlorn  drudge’s 
sensations,  as  he  doggedly  lifts  the  quill  stump, 
and  moves  it  instinctively  towards  that  fountain 
of  good  and  evil,  the  ink-pot,  surcharged  with 
both  the  gall  of  bitterness  and  the  honey  of  adula- 
tion. He  is  destitute  of  a topic — his  overwrought 
brain  has  exhausted  its  stock  of  images — and  he 
can  fancy  nothing  but  the  ghosts  of  ideas  already 
hackneyed  through  all  the  changes  of  the  alpha- 
bet— no  subject  that  has  not  been  hacked  to 
death  by  the  hungry  scissors  of  borrowers  and 
imitators.  Yet  must  he  continue  to  feed  the  iron 
jaws  of  the  press  ! There  is  no  release  from  the 
undertaking.  He  is  in  for  it,  and,  sterile  or 
fertile,  feasting  or  starving,  his  imagination  must 
be  wrung  daily,  yea  hourly,  for  the  wherewithal 
to  meet  the  merciless  demands  of  the  demon  at 
his  elbow  ! 


NEWS-MAKING. 


315 


Other  men  may  eat,  drink,  and  sleep;  may 
live,  move,  and  have  a being  like  decent  crea- 
tures ; the  merchant  may  relax  in  time  of  sick- 
ness, or  retire  at  seasons  of  enjoyment;  the 
mechanic  may  forego  a job  when  he  breaks  a 
limb,  or  chooses  to  go  a- fishing;  the  farmer  may 
work,  or  let  it  alone  ; and  the  mariner  has  fre- 
quent intermission  amidst  the  toils  and  the  storms 
of  his  career ; and  the  world  wags  without  con- 
fusion, nevertheless ; they  only,  comparatively, 
feel  the  consequences.  Not  so  with  the  slave  of 
types.  For  him  there  shines  no  holiday.  No  re- 
pose, no  retreat  awaits  his  tired  powers.  When  he 
skulks,  the  world  comes  to  an  end,  and  chaos  riots ! 

Nor  is  it  merely  indispensable  that  he  shall 
labor  at  brief  and  stated  intervals — the  most  irk- 
some sort  of  employment,  from  its  very  constancy 
and  regularity,  and  unceasing  recurrence ;- — he 
must  also  put  forth  his  efforts  at  something  new. 
The  reading  public  has  become  a spoiled  child, 
with  a depraved  appetite,  perpetually  hankering 
after  novelties,  monstrosities,  and  impossibilities. 
In  the  fabrication  of  these  crudities  for  quidnuncs, 
a renewal  of  intellect,  once  a year  at  least,  should 
be  provided  for.  There  is  an  end,  even  to  “ the 
spider’s  most  attenuated  thread ; and  what 
maker  of  long  yams  can  be  required,  in  reason, 
not  only  to  spin  out,  like  the  spider,  the  substance 
of  his  body,  but  that  of  his  brains  into  the  bar- 
gain ! — Truly  this  is  a cruel  world  ; and  the  man 
that  meddles  with  paragraphs,  a miserable  piece 
of  carneous  machinery. 


ROSALIE. 


By  Washington  Allston. 


[Illustration  of  a Picture  by  himself.] 


Oh  ! pour  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad  unearthly  strain, 

That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain  ; 
Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 

As  if  some  melancholy  star 
Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies. 

No — never  came  from  aught  below 
This  melody  of  wo, 

That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow 
As  from  a thousand  gushing  springs 
Unknown  before  ; that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light — if  light  it  be — 
That  veils  the  world  I see. 

For  all  I see  around  me  wears 
The  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 

And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I breathe. 

Oh,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath, 


ROSALIE. 


317 


Can  mould  a sadness  like  to  this — 
So  like  angelic  bliss. 

So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 
Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play — 
So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie, 

As  on  her  maiden  reverie 
First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
In  music  to  her  soul. 


27* 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


By  B.  B.  Thatcher. 


The  decease  of  Mrs.  Hemans  has  occasioned  the 
general  expression  of  sorrow  which  the  almost 
unprecedented  popularity  of  her  writings,  with 
the  circumstances  of  her  character  and  history 
known  to  the  public,  might  have  led  us  to  expect. 
To  the  poetical  community,  to  the  admirers  es- 
pecially of  that  glorious  spirit  in  poetry  by  which 
hers  was  so  nobly  distinguished — to  the  whole 
world  of  the  heart  in  reading  Christendom,  we 
should  perhaps  have  said — it  was  indeed  no  ordi- 
nary nor  trivial  affliction.  All  these  must  feel 
that  a bright  light  has  gone  out  from  the  firma- 
ment of  the  soul;  a flame  that  could  not  leave 
for  them,  like  the  Pleiad,  “ a void  unmarked,”  (in 
the  language  of  the  poetess  herself,)  for  though 
the  sisters  of  that  sky 

u Still  hold  their  place  on  high,” 

and  still 

u The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains  free, 

And  from  the  silvery  sea 

To  them  the  sailor's  watchful  eye  is  turning/7 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


319 


it  is  not  true  of  the  loss  of  the  Poet,  as  of  the 
loss  of  the  Pleiad,  that 

u Yon  majestic  heaven 

Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanished  star  1 17 

And  we  rejoice  that  it  does  not.  Our  chief  con- 
solation for  such  a bereavement  must  be  in  the 
thought  that  it  is  felt  as  it  should  be;  for,  as 
regards  herself,  next  to  the  public  possession  of 
such  an  author,  is  that  public  appreciation  of  her 
writings  which  gives  her  now  and  forevermore  a 
spiritual  being,  to  breathe  and  speak  in  the  fame 
and  favor  which  they  continue  to  enjoy.  But 
the  feeling  we  speak  of  indicates  much  more  than 
such  a disposition  to  do  justice  to  one  individual, 
and  a corresponding  prospect  of  her  future  influ- 
ence upon  the  race.  It  indicates  the  power  of 
appreciation  still  unimpaired.  It  shows  the  sin- 
cerity and  the  strength  of  the  first  burst  of  admi- 
ration. It  gives  us  new  faith  in  the  might  of  the 
principles  by  force  of  which  that  admiration  was 
both  deserved  and  awarded.  It  confirms  anew, 
and  with  a weight  proportioned  to  the  brilliancy 
of  this  reputation,  the  old  theory  of  the  divine 
policy  of  honesty  ; its  policy  in  literature,  as  well 
as  in  life  ; the  policy,  we  mean,  of  nature,  virtue, 
truth  ; for  such,  beyond  a question,  are  the 
graces  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  which  for 
so  many  years  have  attracted  for  it  and  for  her 
the  delighted  deference,  the  almost  personal  affec- 


320 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


tion,  the  fond  remembrance,  of  the  community  of 
which  we  spoke. 

True  excellence,  then,  has  yet  some  room  to 
hope  for  notice,  gratitude,  and  fame.  If  the  pub- 
lic may  be  imposed  on,  there  is  an  appeal  to  a 
higher  tribunal.  If  it  has  no  heart,  the  world, 
which  is  wiser  and  better  than  the  public,  has 
one ; and  it  will  feel ; and  it  cannot  be  deceived. 
It  is  not  dazzling  shows  nor  specious  promises, 
it  is  not  flattering  the  vanity  nor  pampering  the 
passions  of  mankind,  it  is  not  what  is  fashionable 
merely,  it  is  not  all  the  tricks  of  imagination,  or 
intellect  at  large,  with  all  the  aids  of  art — alone — 
that  may  monopolize  the  attention  of  the  reading 
world,  (and  especially  that  portion  of  it  which 
thinks  and  feels,)  however  they  may  transiently 
succeed  in  diverting  its  love  from  its  best  friends 
and  benefactors,  and  from  truth  and  excellence 
themselves.  Fashion  will  pass  away,  and  pas- 
sion subside  in  satiety ; and  the  frivolous  industry 
that  ministered  to  the  gratification  of  the  one,  and 
the  false  excitement  that  led  the  other  to  its  own 
destruction,  will  be  despised  first,  and  then  for- 
gotten ; but  man  remains  the  same,  from  first  to 
last;  and  truth,  which  also  remains,  is  mighty, 
and,  worthily  interpreted,  must  prevail.  How 
long  it  may  be  in  making  its  way,  depends  upon 
the  circumstances  of  each  particular  case.  It 
may  address  the  head,  or  the  heart,  or  both.  It 
may  be  more  or  less  a matter  of  necessity,  or  of 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


321 


luxury  alone.  It  may  be  left  to  the  recommen- 
dation only  of  its  own  modest  merit,  or  be  drawn 
into  notice  by  fortunate  crises,  or  casual  accom- 
paniments, well  adapted  to  excite  a seasonable 
sympathy,  as  it  were  at  the  mere  sight  of  its 
features,  or  the  sound  of  its  name,  while  its  abso- 
lute character  is  yet  unknown.  Meanwhile 

11  The  soul  whence  these  high  gifts  are  shed 
May  faint  in  solitude/' 

exhausted  by  these  same  efforts,  or  borne  down  by 
circumstances  which  have  little  or  no  connection 
with  them ; or  it  may  thrive,  as  the  young  tree 
that  leans  over  running  waters,  and  grows  stronger 
as  it  gives  more  fruit,  till  it  lives  to  feel,  in  the 
airs  that  reach  it  from  many  a far-off  shore,  the 
joy  of  its  own  blossomy  breath  returned  to  it, 
and  to  hear  the  blessing  of  the  poor  pilgrim  who 
has  paused  in  the  dust  of  the  way-side  of  a weary 
life,  and  the  school-girl’s  glee,  and  the  child’s 
murmur  of  sweet  delight,  as  they  turn  down 
from  the  heat  of  the  day,  to  be  refreshed  and  re- 
joice together  in  the  gloom  of  its  green  repose. 

So  has  it  been  already,  and  so  it  will  be  still, 
with  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans.  She  strove  to 
be  the  worthy  interpreter  of  worthy  truth,  deeply 
concerning  the  happiness  of  her  race  ; and  the 
vital  spirit  of  virtue  has  inspired  her  to  be  equal 
to  the  task.  This  is  her  praise  ; and  it  is  praise 
enough;  not  that  she  has  spent  her  strength  in 
the  rearing  of  dazzling  fabrics  of  fancy,  as  bril- 


322 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


liant  and  as  useless  as  the  ice-palaces  of  the 
northern  Queen ; not  that  she  has  chosen  to  in- 
dulge the  impulse  of  a wayward  temperament  in 
the  reckless  expression  of  feeling  without  princi- 
ple, and  of  sentiment  without  point ; not  that  she 
has  dealt  only  in  the  cold  oracles  of  a selfish 
philosophy,  more  thoughtful  of  truth,  and  of 
proof,  than  of  the  use  of  either  in  the  wants  of 
the  world ; not  that  she  has  indulged  unholy 
passion  in  tier  own  breast,  or  the  breast  of  any 
living  creature ; not  that  she  has  dared  to  exag- 
gerate, that  at  all  events  she  might  astonish,  or 
deigned  to  be  mean,  in  the  miserable  hope  of 
amusing.  No ! She  has  neither  failed  to  feel 
the  high  dignity  of  her  profession,  nor  forgotten 
to  observe  it.  She  has  made  no  vain  display  of 
genius  faithless  to  its  trust.  She  has  cultivated 
self  as  the  means,  not  consulted  it  as  the  end. 
She  has  been  ambitious  less  to  gain  honor,  than 
to  give  pleasure,  and  do  good.  She  has  not 
assumed  to  assert  what  is  doubtful,  or  to  deny 
what  is  not  so.  She  has  not  dogmatised,  criticised, 
or  theorised.  She  has  not  speculated.  She  has 
not  trifled.  She  has  not  flattered  nor  inflamed. 
But  she  did  strive  to  ennoble  virtue,  to  encourage 
exertion,  to  sustain  hope,  to  increase  the  happi- 
ness of  men  by  increasing  their  capacity  to  be 
happy,  and  developing  their  taste  for  what  is 
deserving  of  pursuit.  She  strove,  in  a word,  as 
we  began  with  saying,  to  be  the  worthy  interpre- 
ter of  worthy  truth.  And  she  was  so. 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


323 


No  Delphic  frenzy  could  aid  in  the  discharge 
of  such  a service ; it  would  have  made  it,  as  in 
so  many  other  cases  ( not  heathen)  it  has  done, 
a worse  than  worthless  labor.  She  wanted  the 
powers  of  perception,  and  reflection,  to  appreciate 
the  world  without,  and  the  world  within ; and 
these  she  had  and  did ; but  not  as  if  to  know, 
and  to  think,  only,  were  the  life  of  the  soul. 
She  wanted  sensibility — the  more  exquisite,  the 
better — and  the  more  cultivated,  with  all  the  fac- 
ulties in  due  proportion,  the  better ; — “ for  what  is 
it  to  live,  if  it  be  not  to  love?”  She  wanted  to 
feel,  as  only  the  good  can  do,  “at  the  sight  of 
whatever  is  excellent,  an  emotion  like  that  which 
the  sweet  remembrance  of  infancy  causes ; ” an 
instinct  to  recognize  the  face  of  the  beautiful, 
wherever  it  may  be,  and  to  rush  as  it  were  into 
its  arms,  as  her  Syrian  pilgrim,  from  all  his  wan- 
derings returned  to  his  mother’s  home  again, 
into  hers.  She  wanted  enthusiasm  even,  in  the 
exercise  of  these  capacities  ; enthusiasm  to  make 
the  exercise  a delight,  and  to  inspire  her  to  com- 
municate to  other  bosoms  the  rejoicing  of  her  own. 
But  with  all  these,  which  she  had,  she  needed  no 
morbid  disorder ; she  had  none.  She  knew,  with 
Degerando,  that  “we  preserve  this  precious  faculty 
of  the  heart” — even  this — “ only  in  proportion  as 
we  cultivate  truth,  and  guard  against  the  exag- 
gerated. affected,  or  factitious.”  She  kept  herself 
calm  even  for  the  purpose  of  feeling — of  feeling 
rightly,  as  much  as  of  seeing  clearly — knowing 


324 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


also  it  is  a fruitless  torture  we  choose  to  suffer, 
“ to  force  ourselves  to  be  false  to  ourselves,  and 
to  everything,  that  we  may  learn  how  to  be 
true;7’  that  the  mind  may  faithfully  mirror,  only 
in  a state  of  composure,  the  impressions  which 
meet  it;  that  the  knowledge,  the  knowledge  of 
all  nature,  and  especially  of  his  own,  which  the 
poet  pursues,  flees  from  the  rushing  footstep  of 
passion,  even  as  the  haste  of  the  hunter  startles 
his  game. 

This  calmness  it  is,  which  eminently  charac- 
terizes the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  which 
most  distinguishes  it  from  the  revolutionary  poetry 
of  the  revolutionary  age  we  live  in.  It  is  a self- 
possession  which  never  forsakes  her,  in  the  heat 
of  her  highest  enthusiasm  of  joy  or  sorrow. 
There  is  a divine  dignity,  unsurpassed  by  the 
grandeur  of  Milton,  even  in  the  rapture  of  the 
admiration  that  seems  almost  to  lift  her  in  her 
song,  as  upon  angels’  pinions, 


u To  the  breath 

Of  Dorian  flute,  or  lyre-note  soft  and  slow;” 


and  again,  in  the  darkest  mood  of  the  u tender 
gloom”  which  beautifully  tinges  the  whole  sur- 
face of  her  works,  (like  the  dim,  religious  light 
of  an  ancient  forest,  or  of  one  of  her  own  lonely 
fanes, 


A mighty  minster,  dim,  and  proud,  and  vast,”) 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


325 


there  is  yet  a more  than  wakeful — a cheerful — 
an  inextinguishably  cheerful  spirit — an  immortal 
hope — a “ calmness  of  the  just/7 — as  manifest 
and  as  majestic  in  herself  as  in  her  own  “ Alvar’s 
glorious  mien/7  and  making  its  voice  heard  in 
the  midst  of  its  sorrow,  like  the  martyr’s 

11  Sweet  and  solemn-breathing'  strain, 

Piercing  the  flames,  untremulous  and  clear.” 

We  have  called  it  the  vital  spirit  of  virtue 
which  sustains  her.  But  call  it  rather,  with  her- 
self, “ God’s  breath  within  the  soul;77  for  such 
an  exhaustless  reservoir  of  resources,  after  all,  is 
the  secret  of  her  inspiration.  It  was  the  inspi- 
ration of  truth — religious  truth — religiously  im- 
pressed, and  felt ; — deep-seated,  but  calm,  as  a 
lake  in  the  lonely  hills,  in  the  sun-bright  silence 
of  the  breast. 

But  the  most  distinctive  peculiarity  of  these 
compositions  remains  to  be  noticed.  It  is  a great 
deal,  indeed,  especially  in  these  days,  to  be  able 
to  speak  unreservedly,  as  we  have  done  in  this 
case,  of  the  glorious  spirit  that  lives  along  the 
spotless  page.  It  is  a great  deal  to  say  that  Mrs. 
Hemans  was  a moral,  rational,  religious  writer. 
But  she  was  more  than  that.  She  wrote  as  none 
but  a woman  can  write ; nay,  as  a woman  should. 
She  had  the  elements  in  her  nature  which  could 
enable  her,  and  which  prompted  her,  to  do  so ; 
and  she  explored  them.  She  had  the  capacity  of 
feeling,  in  her  own  experience,  the  whole  history 
28 


326 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


of  the  heart  of  a woman,  through  all  the  chances 
of  her  life ; and  the  genius  to  do  justice,  in  lan- 
guage, to  what  she  felt;  and  having  these,  she 
studied  them,  and  tested  them,  and  trained  them 
to  the  work  ; — 

u Gathering  the  jewels  far  below 
From  many  a buried  urn  5 

Wringing  from  lava-veins  the  fire 
That  o’er  bright  words  is  poured  5 

Learning  deep  sounds,  to  make  the  lyre 
A spirit  in  each  chord  ! ” 


She  devoted  herself,  in  fact,  a living  sacrifice,  to 
what  she  considered,  as  Milton  did,  her  “ noble 
task.”  She  lived  for  it;  lived  herself  out  for  it; 
died  for  it.  And  so — the  price,  indeed,  like  the 
diver’s  pearls,  of  lonely  toil  and  bitter  tears — her 
gems  became,  like  his, 

11  A star  to  all  the  festive  hall.” 

And  such  was  the  discipline  through  which  her 
poetry  came,  at  last,  to  indicate,  as  a model,  what 
female  poetry  should  be.  And  so  she  made  her- 
self the  worthy  representative  of  the  sex. 

She  had  the  elements  in  her  nature,  we  said. 
It  was  not  a female  intellect  alone.  It  was  not  the 
delicacy,  the  grace,  the  miniatural  nicety,  the  ex- 
quisite tact  in  little  things,  nor  anything  else,  appa- 
rent in  her  mere  style,  for  which  she  might  be  in- 
debted to  her  genius  as  a woman ; it  was  not  these, 
alone.  It  was  the  genius  of  the  heart.  It  was  the 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


327 


female  feeling.  And  oh  ! how  has  she  poured  and 
poured  it  out,  strong  and  fresh  as  the  rushing 
waters  of  her  own  u streams  and  founts’7  of  the 
Spring,  when  they  hurst 

u From  their  sparry  caves, 

And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves.” 


What  devotedness — what  fearless,  uncalculat- 
ing, uncompromising  confidence — the  confidence 
of  the  heart — of  a woman’s  heart — breathe,  as 
with  a living  ardor  of  the  warm  lips  themselves, 
in  the  agony  of  Inez  at  the  Auto  da  Fe,  when  the 
“ breathless  rider  ” found  her,  by  the  gleam  of  the 
midnight  fire, 

“And  dashed  off  fiercely  those  who  came  to  part, 

And  rushed  to  that  pale  girl,  and  clasped  her  to  his  heart ! 

And  for  a moment  all  around  gave  way 
To  that  full  burst  of  passion  ! — on  his  breast, 

Like  a bird  panting  yet  from  fear,  she  lay, 

But  blest — in  misery's  very  lap — yet  blest ! — 

O love,  love  strong  as  death ! — from  such  an  hour 
Pressing  out  joy  by  thine  immortal  power — 

Holy  and  fervent  love  ! had  earth  but  rest 
For  thee  and  thine,  this  world  were  all  too  fair! 

How  could  we  thence  be  weaned  to  die  without  despair  ? 

But  she — as  falls  a willow  from  the  storm, 

O'er  its  own  river  streaming — thus  reclined 
On  the  youth's  bosom  hung  her  fragile  form 
And  clasping  arms,  so  passionately  twined 
Around  his  neck — with  such  a trusting  fold, 

A full,  deep  sense  of  safety  in  their  hold, 

As  if  naught  earthly  might  th'  embrace  unbind ! 

Alas  ! a child's  fond  faith,  believing  still 
Its  mother's  breast  beyond  the  lightning's  reach  to  kill ! " 


328 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


What  a picture  is  this  ! How  do  we  feel  that 
only  one  who  has  herself  a heart,  and  such  a 
heart,  can  render  such  justice  to 

u The  strife 

Of  love,  faith,  fear,  and  that  vain  dream  of  life, 

Within  her  woman’s  breast ! ” 


How  do  we  seem  to  hear,  as  her  hero  “ woos  her 
back  to  life,”  in  his  frenzy,  her  “ soft  voice  in  his 
soul!”  How  do  we  see,  again, 

u Her  large  tears  gush 

Like  blood-drops  from  a victim  5 with  swift  rain 
Bathing  the  bosom  where  she  leaned  that  hour, 

As  if  her  life  would  melt  in  that  o’erswelling  shower.” 


These,  truly,  are  the  fervor,  the  trust,  the  ten- 
derness of  a woman’s  poetry.  Here  was  her 
own  province.  The  warm  air  of  home  was  her 
genial  stimulant.  Her  subjects  show  that  she 
felt  herself  that  it  was  so.  If,  in  the  choice  of 
these,  she  sometimes  leaves  the  fireside,  she  does 
not  travel  in  male  disguise ; still  less  does  she 
cease  to  be  what  she  is.  Her  household  gods  go 
with  her  wherever  she  goes,  and  the  sound  of 
their  parting  footsteps  is  audible  with  her  own. 
With  the  wreck  and  the  treasures  of  the  deep, 
mid  gold  and  gems,  and  buried  isles,  and  towers 
o’erthrown,  we  find 

11  The  lost  and  lovely  ! — those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long ! ” 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


329 


She  brings  her  “ flowers  ” for  crowns  to  the  early 
dead , and  for 

li  Brides  to  wear  ; — 

They  were  born  to  blush  in  their  shining  hair  ! ” 


She  sends  the  Crusader  to  Syrian  deserts,  that 
he  may  find  his  way  back  again  to  “ some  fond 
mother’s  glance,”  that  “o’er  him , too,  brooded  in 
his  early  years.”  She  makes  the  conqueror  in 
his  sleep  “a  child  again.”  The  Traveller,  at  the 
source  of  the  Nile,  thinks  of  the  wild  sweet  voices 
of  the  streams,  in 

u Haunts  of  play, 

Where  brightly  through  the  beechen  shade, 

Their  waters  glanced  away.” 


Her  trumpet  sounds  for  the  lover  to  quit  his  mar- 
riage-altar, and 

u The  mother  on  her  first-born  son 
Looks  with  a boding  eye  5” 

and  it  is  still  “ woman  on  the  field  of  battle”  it- 
self. Sh efelt,  we  said,  that  here  was  her  empire. 
She  knew  that  it  was  the  spells  of  home  which 
inspired  her,  and  she  clung  even  to  the  forsaken 
hearth,  and  to  the  graves,  themselves,  of  the 
household.  The  faith,  the  hope,  the  fear,  the 
love,  even  the  anguish,  of  a woman’s  heart,  sus- 
tained her;  and  she  revived  with  the  “taste  of 
tears ; ” and  again  and  again,  while  yet  she 
weeps,  like  the  Bride  of  the  Isle,  till  her  voice 
28* 


330 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


seems  lost  with  the  choking  swell,  sweeter  and 
clearer  than  ever  do 

11  Her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  find  way, 

In  the  sudden  flow  of  the  plaintive  lay.” 

Hers,  in  a word,  as  we  said  before,  is  the  poetry 
of  a woman ; all , as  some  of  it  is  entitled,  the 
records  of  the  sex,  the  songs  of  affection.  And  it 
is,  in  this  respect,  what  it  should  be.  It  is  the 
poetry  of  the  household.  It  is  the  poetry  of  the 
heart. 

Such  exertions,  and  such  results,  could  not  be 
doomed  to  fail.  She  has  not  lived,  nor  died,  in 
vain.  Though  dead,  she  speaketh  yet,  and  will 
speak ; and  the  heart  of  man,  whose  necessities, 
and  sufferings,  and  high  yearnings  in  the  midst 
of  them  all,  she  knew  so  well  to  utter  and  to 
address,  will  hear  her,  and  give  heed  to  her  les- 
sons. She  wrote  for  those  whom  others  have 
forgotten,  and  these  will  remember  her.  The 
mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife — they  that  baptise 
the  living,  and  that  bury  the  dead — they  that 
rejoice,  and  they  that  pray  and  weep — they  that 
love,  and  “must  love  on,”  but  would 

11  Make  pure  the  flame  that  knows  not  death, 

Bearing  it  up  to  Heaven,  Love’s  own  abode  j” 


these,  and  all  the  host  of  her  own  nameless  mar- 
tyrs that  flower-like  throng  the  solitudes  of  earth 
— whose  affliction  she  has  soothed,  whose  dreari- 


THE  POETRY  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 


331 


ness  enlivened,  whose  fortitude  and  faith  sus- 
tained, whose  natures  filled  with  finer,  worthier, 
truer  notions  of  their  own  capacity  and  destiny, 
and  of  the  capacity  and  destiny  of  the  race ; — 

u Lifting  the  eternal  hope,  the  adoring  breath 
Of  spirits  not  to  be  disjoined  by  death, 

Up  to  the  starry  skies  ! v 


these,  all  these,  in  all  time,  will  remember  her ; 
cherishing  the  dear  affections  she  has  trusted,  as 
doves,  to  their  bosoms  ; and,  long  after  dust  shall 
be  in  the  heart  which  sent  them  forth  to  roam 
the  world  for  shelter  in  some  human  soul,  rejoic- 
ing, and  blessing  God,  that,  though  life  for  her 
was  short,  she  did  not  live,  and  has  not  died,  in 
vain  ! 


VISIT  TO  AN  OLD  PLAY-PLACE. 


By  J.  W.  Miller. 


I come,  I come,  bright,  sparkling  fount, 

To  fling  me  on  thy  grassy  side, 

And  drink,  as  I in  youth  was  wont, 

New  life  from  thy  pure  tide  ; 

And  in  thy  cool,  translucent  wave, 

My  parched,  thought-fevered  forehead  lave. 

Loved  fountain,  thou  art  dear  to  me, 

For  hallowed  memories  are  thine; 

And  in  thy  voice  of  pensive  glee 
Shall  breathe  a hymn  divine  ; 

A hymn  that  flings  upon  the  heart 
Old  feelings  that  too  soon  depart. 

A thousand  sweet  imaginings 
Shall  bloom  among  thy  margin-flowers  ; 
And  thy  fair  streamlet,  as  it  sings 
Down  to  the  hazel  bowers, 

Shall  tell  me  gay  and  happy  tales 
Of  youth — like  summer’s  morning  gales. 

I come  ! My  aching  head  is  hot 
With  tossing  on  a sleepless  bed  ; 

I come,  but  ah  ! I hear  thee  not — 


VISIT  TO  AN  OLD  PLAY-PLACE. 


333 


Where  are  thine  echoes  fled  ? 

What,  silent  all ! and  is  there  none 
To  wake  for  me  one  soothing  moan  ? 

I come  ! Such  is  my  wayward  fate — 

I stand  beside  thine  ancient  place, 

All  silent  now  and  desolate — 

But  yet  there  is  a grace, 

Though  mournful,  in  the  weeds  that  wave 
Above  it  as  above  a grave. 

I knew  thee  when  the  smile  of  youth 
Was  thine,  and  thou  didst  glad  the  eye, 
And  make  the  bosom  still.  In  sooth 
I deemed  not  thou  wouldst  die 
So  soon  ; but  now  these  old,  grey  stones 
Seem  like  a charnel-pile  of  bones. 

And  one  might  deem  thy  lucid  flow 
Was  like  a young  and  happy  heart 
That  in  life’s  shaded  vale  of  wo 
Sparkled  awhile — to  part— 

Alas,  how  swift^  and  go  forth 
Like  thee  forever  from  the  earth. 

Oh ! it  is  sad  to  look  upon 

The  play-place  of  our  boyish  hours, 

And  mark  what  wasting  change  hath  run 
As  fire  amid  its  bowers, 

And  seared  its  greenwood-tree,  and  left 
A trunk  all  blackened  and  bereft. 


334 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


And  sadly  I remember  now 
When,  as  gushed  forth  that  fountain-tide, 
I chased  in  childhood’s  eager  glow 
The  wild  bee  by  its  side  ; 

And  loved,  I knew  not  why,  to  bound 
Its  ver  ant,  sunlit  marge  around. 

Years  rolled,  and  growing  manhood’s  seal 
Sat  on  my  brow — alluring  Fame 
Breathed  out  for  me  her  bugle-peal, 

And  then  again  I came  ; — 

The  gushing  fount  still  bubbled  out — 

The  rill  went  on  its  shining  route, 

As  erst  it  went  : yet  one  might  know 
The  foot  of  Ttme  had  trodden  there  ; 

The  ripples  flashed  no  sunlight  now, 

And  a tall  grove  afar 
Spread  out  its  leafy  canopy, 

And  whispered  as  the  breeze  went  by. 

Yet  still  I loved  the  spot;  and  when, 

The  Sabbath-morning  on  the  hills, 

In  deeper  silence  down  the  glen 
More  swiftly  stole  the  rills, 

The  cool  recesses  heard  me  tell 
High  hopes  and  dreams  I loved  too  well. 

Now  other  years  have  wandered  by — 
Once  more  I come — my  boyhood’s  dream 
Hath  fled  away  from  manhood’s  eye, 


VISIT  TO  AN  OLD  PLAY-PLACE. 


335 


As  sun-rays  from  the  stream ; 

Yet  would  I fain  once  more  renew 
Those  hopes  and  those  loved  visions  too. 

The  shades  of  youth’s  departed  days 
Still  love  the  places  of  their  birth, 

And  kindly  send  some  tranquil  rays 
To  cheer  those  spots  of  earth  ; 

I come  to  summon  them  again 
To  their  beloved  haunts — in  vain  ! 

And  as  I stand  in  sadness  here, 

In  sadness  stand,  when  to  rejoice 
I came — this  tomb-like  silence  drear 
Hath  a prophetic  voice — 

“ Thus  desolate  thy  bower  of  joy — 

The  fountain  of  thy  hopes  thus  dry  !” 


A MODERN  GREEK. 


By  S.  G.  Howe. 

I would  have  you  mark  this  fellow  Francesco 
well,  for  in  him  you  will  find  the  model  of  thou- 
sands of  young  Greeks  of  the  present  day ; and 
you  will  see  the  effect  of  circumstances  on  the 
character  of  the  nation.  Francesco  was,  in  form 
and  mind,  a true  Greek.  He  had  the  light,  well- 
made,  active  figure ; the  dark  yet  clear  com- 
plexion; the  regular,  expressive,  and  animated 
features ; the  keen  and  ever-restless  eye,  that 
indicate  active  and  enterprising  minds,  keen  sus- 
ceptibility, and  strong  but  short-lived  passion. 

He  was  born  he  knew  not  where ; and  he  first 
found  himself  a slave  at  Constantinople.  He  grew 
up  under  the  eye  of  a tyrant,  whom  he  hated 
and  feared,  and  who,  (as  Francesco  said,)  though 
free  from  the  unnatural  passion  which  is  one  of 
the  besetting  sins  of  the  Asiatic  Turks,  treated 
him  in  every  other  respect  as  a dog  and  a slave. 

The  earliest  efforts  of  his  mind  were  to  deceive 
and  cheat  his  master.  Hypocrisy  and  deception 
were  his  only  weapons  against  brutal  force.  u So 
much,”  said  he,  “ did  I fawn  upon  my  master, 


A MODERN  GREEK. 


337 


so  cringing,  so  cowardly,  and  unresenting  did  I 
appear  under  the  lash,  that  you  would  have  said 
I had  no  soul,  and  could  not  feel  like  a man.” 
He  had  no  communion  of  spirit  with  his  kind,  for 
the  hand  of  every  man  was  against  him;  he  saw 
that  every  one  around  him  was  perfectly  unprin- 
cipled and  selfish,  and  trying  by  force  or  fraud  to 
overreach  his  neighbor;  he  himself  could  do  noth- 
ing by  the  strong  hand,  and  he  had,  like  all  the 
weak,  recourse  to  guile.  He  clothed  his  face  in 
smiles;  he  put  on  a simple  and  benevolent  look; 
he  cultivated  his  address,  and  flattered  every 
one  he  met.  With  a continual  eye  to  his  own 
interest,  he  studied  the  character  of  others,  and 
tried  to  take  advantage  of  their  weaknesses.  He 
would  lie  and  cheat  for  gain,  and  then  he  must 
lie  and  cheat  to  conceal  his  spoil  from  his  mas- 
ter, who  would  have  approved  the  villany,  and 
stripped  the  villain.  But  Francesco  watched  his 
time;  he  killed  his  tyrant;  he  took  as  much  of 
his  gold  as  he  could  get  at ; and,  concealing  him- 
self in  the  hold  of  a vessel,  escaped  from  Con- 
stantinople. He  roved  about  some  time,  a pirate, 
in  the  Archipelago;  and  then  found  his  way  to 
Europe.  He  wandered  awhile  in  Italy,  sometimes 
a trader,  sometimes  a spy,  and  sometimes,  I fear, 
a brigand.  He  was  an  Atheist,  and  unprinci- 
pled, though  he  still  clung  to  the  mummeries  of 
his  church.  He  would  take  by  the  beard,  and 
rob,  a priest  of  his  own  religion,  when  out  of  his 
sacerdotal  robes,  yet  would  he  never  eat  without 
29 


338 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


crossing  himself,  or  undertake  a pillaging  excur- 
sion without  putting  up  a prayer  to  the  Virgin,  and 
vowing  her  a big  wax  taper,  if  he  had  success. 

But  Francesco  had  too  uneasy,  wandering  a 
spirit,  to  let  him  remain  in  civilized  Europe ; for 
he  had  not  enough  of  the  avarice  of  his  country- 
men to  content  himself  with  mere  money-making. 
He  wandered  into  Servia,  and  Bosnia,  and  served 
among  the  Armatoli,  who  often  lived  by  plun- 
dering the  Turks,  their  employers.  In  these 
countries,  and  in  Russia,  he  found  many  of  his 
countrymen,  who  were  hatching  the  plot  of  revo- 
lution. He  became  initiated  into  the  secret,  and 
felt  all  his  old  hatred  of  the  Turks  revive.  As 
soon  as  the  revolt  in  Greece  broke  out,  Francesco 
flew  to  join  the  first  of  the  rebels.  And  now 
behold  him  in  his  element, — the  life  and  spirit  of 
a band  of  wild  mountain-soldiers.  His  wit  and 
humor,  his  volubility  and  fund  of  anecdote,  and 
his  continual  flow  of  spirits,  made  him  the  delight 
of  his  companions  around  the  night-fire.  It  was 
Francesco’s  cheerful  voice  that  roused  them  at 
early  dawn,  it  was  Francesco  who  ever  led  the 
way  through  difficult  or  dangerous  passes ; his 
never-ceasing  song  cheered  the  weary  march, 
and  his  light  look  and  frolic  eye  were  never 
darkened  by  fatigue.  Methinks  I see  him  now, 
with  his  thirty  light-hearted  companions  in  a 
row  behind  him,  rapidly  crossing  a plain,  or 
toiling  over  a mountain,  all  life  and  animation, 
taking  up  the  chorus  of  his  song,  and  making 


A MODERN  GREEK. 


339 


the  mountains  echo  with  their  shouts.  There 
can  be  nothing  in  real  life  more  romantic  or  pic- 
turesque than  the  march  of  a band  of  wild  Greek 
soldiers  among  the  wilder  scenery  of  their  moun- 
tains. The  classic  ground,  the  glorious  recollec- 
tions, and  the  noble  cause,  threw  another  charm 
on  what  in  itself  was  really  romantic.  The 
animated  movements  of  the  soldiers,  their  beauti- 
ful and  glittering  dresses,  each  with  his  red  cap 
and  blue  silk  tassel, — his  neck  bare  down  to  his 
bosom, — his  long,  jet-black  ringlets  reaching  to 
his  shoulders, — his  gold-laced  close  jacket,  with 
sleeves  slashed  and  thrown  back  so  as  to  leave 
the  right  arm  and  shoulder  bare, — the  white  kilt 
bound  in  at  the  waist  with  a blue  silk  sash,  cov- 
ered by  a belt,  in  which  hung  yatagan  and  gilded 
pistols, — his  embroidered  gaiters  and  sandaled 
feet, — the  white,  shaggy  capote,  hanging  down 
from  the  left  shoulder, — the  long,  light,  bright- 
barrelled  gun  in  his  right  hand, — behold  the  Greek 
soldier,  with  all  his  baggage,  equipped  for  a cam- 
paign. Methinks  I am  again  with  them,  bounding 
forward  to  avoid  or  surprise  a foe,  with  no  music 
but  the  song  of  Francesco,  no  baggage  but  what 
each  of  us  carried  on  his  shoulder.  The  little  blue 
banner  with  the  white  cross  was  streaming  over 
my  head,  the  soil  of  Greece  was  beneath  my 
feet,  the  sons  of  Greeks  were  my  companions, 
the  liberty  of  Greece  was  in  perspective,  and 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  I said  I was  the 
happiest  of  mortals. 


340 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Francesco  was  always  first  on  the  march, 
when  the  path  was  difficult  to  be  found,  or  a 
dangerous  defile  to  be  passed.  His  reputation  for 
courage,  sealed  and  confirmed  by  his  many  scars, 
made  him  as  much  respected  by  his  companions, 
as  his  merry  mood  and  liberal  dashing  way, 
made  him  beloved.  But  he  was  not  first  in  good 
deeds  alone  : was  a village  to  be  put  under  con- 
tribution for  provisions,  or  sheep  to  be  obtained 
nolens-volens  from  the  shepherd,  he  always  did 
the  business.  He  would  plead  like  a lawyer, 
and  coax  like  a woman,  and  when  that  failed, 
out  flew  his  yatagan,  and  he  would  head  the 
soldiers  in  their  too  frequent  attacks  on  the  peas- 
antry. 

A fine  man,  indeed,  you  have  for  an  attend- 
ant, says  the  reader: — a murderer,  robber,  and 
brigand!  True;  and  yet  he  had  his  redeeming 
qualities,  for  he  was  brave,  and  generous,  and 
warm-hearted;  and  he  loved  his  country  with 
a zeal  equalled  only  by  his  deadly  hatred  of  the 
Turks.  He  would  plunder  without  much  straining 
his  conscience;  still,  he  was  not  a thief.  I have 
known  him  come  out  as  true  as  steel,  from  situa- 
tions that  severely  tried  his  courage  and  attach- 
ment, and  come  out  too,  unsullied,  from  yet  more 
dangerous  ones,  which  put  his  honor  and  honesty 
to  the  test.  I tried  him  long  and  well,  and 
hardly  know  the  man  to  whom  I should  more 
freely  trust  my  life  and  property. 


LINES  FOR  MY  COUSIN’S  ALBUM. 


By  Horatio  Hale. 


Nay,  ask  me  not  how  long  it  be 

Since  love’s  sweet  witchery  on  me  stole ; 
In  truth,  it  always  seemed  to  me 
A portion  of  my  soul. 

I know  the  springs  where  love  was  nursed, 
But  ask  not  when  it  blossomed  first. 

’T  was  not  beneath  the  cloudless  skies 
Of  youth’s  sweet  summer  ; long  before, 
The  sunshine  of  those  gentle  eyes 
Had  waked  the  tender  flower, 

And  from  its  breathing  censer-cup, 

Had  drawn  its  purest  incense  up. 


’T  was  not  in  childhood’s  merry  May, 

When  dews  were  fresh  and  skies  were  fair, 
And  life  was  one  long,  sunny  day, 

Undimmed  by  thought  or  care  ; — 

Oh  no  ! the  stream  whence  love  is  fed 
Is  deepest  at  the  fountain-head ; — 

29* 


342 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


And  feeling’s  purest,  holiest  flowers 
Are  brightest  in  life’s  earliest  dawn, 

But  fade  when  come  the  sultry  hours 
Of  noontide  splendor  on. 

The  heart’s  fine  music  sweetest  rings 
Ere  manhood’s  tears  have  dulled  the  strings. 

I think  my  being  and  my  love, 

Like  oak  and  vine,  together  sprung ; 

And  bough  and  tendril  interwove, 

And  round  my  heart-strings  clung. 

Oh!  never  till  my  latest  sigh 
Shall  aught  unclasp  that  gentle  tie. 


SHAKING  HANDS. 


By  Edward  Everett. 


There  are  few  things  of  more  common  occurrence 
than  shaking  hands;  and  yet  I do  not  recollect 
that  much  has  been  speculated  upon  the  subject. 
I confess,  when  I consider  to  what  unimportant 
and  futile  concerns  the  attention  of  writers  and 
readers  has  been  directed,  I am  surprised  that  no 
one  lias  been  found  to  handle  so  important  a 
matter  as  this,  and  attempt  to  give  the  public  a 
rational  view  of  the  doctrine  and  discipline  of 
shaking  hands.  It  is  a theme  on  which  I have 
myself  theorized  a good  deal,  and  I beg  leave  to 
offer  a few  remarks  on  the  origin  of  the  practice, 
and  the  various  forms  in  'which  it  is  exercised. 

I have  been  unable  to  find  in  the  ancient 
writers,  any  distinct  mention  of  shaking  hands. 
They  followed  the  heartier  practice  of  hugging 
or  embracing,  which  has  not  wholly  disappeared 
among  grown  persons  in  Europe,  and  children 
in  our  own  country,  and  has  unquestionably  the 
advantage  on  the  score  of  cordiality.  When  the 
ancients  trusted  the  business  of  salutation  to  the 
hands  alone,  they  joined  but  did  not  shake  them  ; 


344 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


and  although  I find  frequently  such  phrases  as 
jungere  dextras  hospitio , I do  not  recollect  to  have 
met  with  that  of  agitare  dextras . I am  inclined 
to  think  that  the  practice  grew  up  in  the  ages  of 
chivalry,  when  the  cumbrous  iron  mail,  in  which 
the  knights  were  cased,  prevented  their  embrac- 
ing ; and  when,  with  fingers  clothed  in  steel,  the 
simple  touch  or  joining  of  the  hands  would  have 
been  but  cold  welcome ; so  that  a prolonged  junc- 
tion was  a natural  resort,  to  express  cordiality; 
and  as  it  would  have  been  awkward  to  keep  the 
hands  unemployed  in  this  position,  a gentle  agi- 
tation or  shaking  might  have  been  naturally  in- 
troduced. How  long  the  practice  may  have 
remained  in  this  incipient  stage,  it  is  impossible, 
in  the  silence  of  history,  to  say ; nor  is  there  any- 
thing in  the  Chronicles,  in  Philip  de  Comines,  or 
the  Byzantine  historians,  which  enables  us  to 
trace  the  progress  of  the  art,  into  the  forms  in 
which  it  now  exists  among  us. 

Without  therefore  availing  myself  of  the  privi- 
lege of  theorists  to  supply  by  conjecture  the  ab- 
sence of  history  or  tradition,  I shall  pass  imme- 
diately to  the  enumeration  of  these  forms  : 

1.  The  pump-handle  shake  is  the  first  which 
deserves  notice.  It  is  executed  by  taking  your 
friend’s  hand,  and  working  it  up  and  down, 
through  an  arc  of  fifty  degrees,  for  about  a 
minute  and  a half.  To  have  its  nature,  force, 
and  character,  this  shake  should  be  performed 
with  a fair  steady  motion.  No  attempt  should  be 


SHAKING  HANDS. 


345 


made  to  give  it  grace,  and,  still  less,  vivacity;  as 
the  few  instances,  in  which  the  latter  has  been 
tried,  have  uniformly  resulted  in  dislocating  the 
shoulder  of  the  person  on  whom  it  has  been 
attempted.  On  the  contrary,  persons  who  are 
partial  to  the  pump-handle  shake  should  be  at 
some  pains  to  give  an  equable,  tranquil  move- 
ment to  the  operation,  which  should  on  no 
account  be  continued  after  perspiration  on  the 
part  of  your  friend  has  commenced. 

2.  The  'pendulum  shake  may  be  mentioned 
next,  as  being  somewhat  similar  in  character; 
but  moving,  as  the  name  indicates,  in  a horizon- 
tal, instead  of  a perpendicular  direction.  It  is 
executed  by  sweeping  your  hand  horizontally 
toward  your  friend’s,  and  after  the  junction  is 
effected,  rowing  with  it  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  according  to  the  pleasure  of  the  parties. 
The  only  caution  in  its  use,  which  needs  particu- 
larly to  be  given,  is  not  to  insist  on  performing  it 
in  a plane,  strictly  parallel  to  the  horizon,  when 
you  meet  with  a person  who  has  been  educated 
to  the  pump-handle  shake.  It  is  well  known 
that  people  cling  to  the  forms  in  which  they 
have  been  educated,  even  when  the  substance  is 
sacrificed  in  adhering  to  them.  I had  two  ac- 
quaintances, both  estimable  men,  one  of  whom 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  pump-handle  shake, 
and  another  had  brought  home  the  pendulum 
from  a foreign  voyage.  They  met,  joined  hands, 
and  attempted  to  put  them  in  motion.  They 


346 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


were  neither  of  them  feeble  men.  One  endeav- 
ored to  pump,  and  the  other  to  paddle ; their 
faces  reddened ; the  drops  stood  on  their  fore- 
heads ; and  it  was,  at  last,  a pleasing  illustration 
of  the  doctrine  of  the  composition  of  forces,  to 
see  their  hands  slanting  into  an  exact  diagonal — 
in  which  line  they  ever  after  shook.  But  it  was 
plain  to  see,  there  was  no  cordiality  in  it ; and, 
as  is  usually  the  case  with  compromises,  both 
parties  were  discontented. 

3.  The  tourniquet  shake  is  the  next  in  impor- 
tance. It  derives  its  name  from  the  instrument 
made  use  of  by  surgeons  to  stop  the  circulation 
of  the  hlood,  in  a limb  about  to  be  amputated. 
It  is  performed  by  clasping  the  hand  of  your 
friend,  as  far  as  you  can,  in  your  own,  and  then 
contracting  the  muscles  of  your  thumb,  fingers 
and  palm,  till  you  have  induced  any  degree  of 
compression  you  may  propose,  in  the  hand  of 
your  friend.  Particular  care  ought  to  be  taken, 
if  your  own  hand  is  as  hard  and  as  big  as  a 
frying-pan,  and  that  of  your  friend  as  small  and 
soft  as  a young  maiden’s,  not  to  make  use  of  the 
tourniquet  shake  to  the  degree  that  will  force  the 
small  bones  of  the  wrist  out  of  place.  It  is  also 
seldom  safe  to  apply  it  to  gouty  persons.  A 
hearty  young  friend  of  mine,  who  had  pursued 
the  study  of  geology,  and  acquired  an  unusual 
hardness  and  strength  of  hand  and  wrist,  by  the 
use  of  the  hammer,  on  returning  from  a scientific 
excursion,  gave  his  gouty  uncle  the  tourniquet 


SHAKING  HANDS. 


347 


shake,  with  such  severity  as  nearly  reduced  the 
old  gentleman’s  fingers  to  powder;  for  which  my 
friend  had  the  pleasure  of  being  disinherited,  as 
soon  as  his  uncle’s  fingers  got  well  enough  to 
hold  a pen. 

4.  The  cordial  grapple  is  a shake  of  some  in- 
terest. It  is  a hearty,  boisterous  agitation  of 
your  friend’s  hand,  accompanied  with  moderate 
pressure,  and  loud,  cheerful  exclamations  of  wel- 
come. it  is  an  excellent  travelling  shake,  and 
well  adapted  to  make  friends.  It  is  indiscrimi- 
nately performed. 

5.  The  Peter  Grievous  touch  is  opposed  to  the 
cordial  grapple.  It  is  a pensive,  tranquil  junc- 
tion, followed  by  a mild  subsuitary  motion,  a 
cast-down  look,  and  an  inarticulate  inquiry  after 
your  friend’s  health. 

6.  The  prude  major  and  prude  minor  are 
nearly  monopolized  by  ladies.  They  cannot  be 
accurately  described,  but  are  constantly  to  be 
noticed  in  practice.  They  never  extend  beyond 
the  fingers ; and  the  prude  major  allows  you  to 
touch  even  then  only  down  to  the  second  joint. 
The  prude  minor  gives  you  the  whole  of  the  fore- 
finger. Considerable  skill  may  be  shown  in  per- 
forming these,  with  nice  variations,  such  as 
extending  the  left  hand,  instead  of  the  right,  or 
stretching  a new  glossy  kid  glove  over  the  finger 
you  extend. 

I might  go  through  a list,  of  the  gripe  royal , 
the  saw-mill  shake,  and  the  shake  with  malice 


348 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


prepense ; but  these  are  only  factitious  combina- 
tions of  the  three  fundamental  forms  already 
described,  as  the  pump-handle,  the  pendulum,  and 
the  tourniquet ; as  the  loving  pat , the  reach  roman- 
tic, and  the  sentimental  clasp,  may  be  reduced  in 
their  main  movements  to  various  combinations 
and  modifications  of  the  cordial  grapple,  Peter 
Grievous  touch,  and  the  prude  major  and  minor. 
I should  trouble  the  reader  with  a few  remarks,  in 
conclusion,  on  the  mode  of  shaking  hands,  as  an 
indication  of  characters,  but  I see  a friend  coming 
up  the  avenue,  who  is  addicted  to  the  pump- 
handle.  I dare  not  tire  my  wrist  by  further 
writing. 


TEMPERANCE  HYMN. 


By  L.  M.  Sargent. 


God  gave  the  gift  to  man  ; 

But  man,  with  fatal  skill, 

Insensate,  formed  the  plan 
To  change  the  good  for  ill : 

The  poison,  tortured  from  the  cane, 

Like  Sampson,  hath  its  thousands  slain. 

God  gave  the  golden  grain 
To  hungry  man,  for  food; 

But,  querulous  and  vain, 

He  spurned  the  proffered  good ; 
And  Egypt’s  slothful  sons,  athirst, 

Drew  forth  the  drowsy  beverage  first. 

God  gave  the  clustering  vine ; 
Ingenious  man,  perverse, 
Exchanged  the  boon  for  wine, 

And  wrought  Canaan’s  curse  : 

The  Patriarch,  who  had  safely  past 
The  deluge,  was  o’erwhelmed  at  last. 


30 


350 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


The  madness  came  by  wine, 

That  wrought  Belshazzar’s  fall ; 

And  caused  the  hand  divine 
To  write  upon  the  wall — 

Scoffer,  thy  royal  race  is  run  ! 

Thy  work  of  wickedness  is  done  ! 

To  earth  the  cup  be  hurled, 

That  holds  an  adder’s  sting ; 

And  let  us  pledge  the  world, 

With  nectar  from  the  spring. 
Henceforth,  like  Rechab’s  ancient  line, 
Though  prophets  urge,  we  drink  no  wine. 


THANKSGIVING. 


By  J.  T.  Buckingham. 


Thanksgiving  ! — there  is  a magic  in  the  sound  of 
the  word,  which  calls  up  from  the  grave  of  years 
the  shadows  of  departed  pleasures,  breathes  upon 
them  the  breath  of  life,  fills  them  with  their 
original  attributes,  decorates  them  again  with  the 
freshness  of  reality,  and  bids  them  move  before 
the  enraptured  imagination,  a long  and  gay  pro- 
cession of  images,  reflecting  the  innocence  of 
childhood,  the  generous  affection  of  youth,  the 
fervency  and  faithfulness  of  that  unsophisticated 
and  momentary  interval,  which  precedes  the 
entrance  on  the  scenes  of  business  and  bustle,  of 
anxiety  and  calculation,  of  cold-hearted  indiffer- 
ence, of  selfish  distrust,  and,  perhaps,  of  treach- 
erous friendship  and  insidious  hypocrisy.  First 
in  the  smiling  pageant,  approaches  the  child,  rich 
(Oh!  how  rich,  beyond  the  wealth  of  princes!) 
in  the  possession  of  its  primers  and  playthings, 
wondering  why  all  the  bustle  of  preparation  for 
the  feast,  and  inquiring,  with  characteristic  sim- 
plicity, the  meaning  of  the  unusual  prodigality 
and  ceremony,  which  everywhere  meet  and 


352 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


enchant  its  unaccustomed  eye.  Next,  the  troop 
of  school-boys,  with  limbs  all  life  and  elasticity, 
and  hearts  all  harmony  and  gladness,  drunk  with 
their  dream  of  liberty  and  release  from  study  ; 
mingled  with  the  less  happy  but  perhaps  more 
fortunate  boys,  whose  lot  compels  them  to  labor 
for  their  bread,  with  well-strung  nerves,  and 
bodies  invigorated  by  health  and  exercise ; — 
bounding,  to  find  their  home,  over  fields  and 
meadows,  over  brook  and  path,  with  hearts  as 
unconcerned  and  steps  as  light  as  the  roe  or  the 
young  hart  on  the  mountains  of  spices.  The 
apprentice, — the  implements  of  his  handicraft 
laid  by,  and  the  frugal  portion  of  his  daily  sim- 
ple subsistence  forgotten, — his  eyes  glistening 
with  exultation  and  his  breast  heaving  with  the 
fulness  of  anticipation, — rushes  along  to  meet,  at 
home,  the  anxious  parent,  proud  of  the  boy’s 
advance  in  a trade  that  will  make  him  indepen- 
dent, and  the  younger  child,  who  wonders  if  a 
year  can  have  wrought  so  astonishing  a transfor- 
mation, and  almost  doubts  his  identity.  Now 
approach  the  brother  and  sister,  whom  a few 
months  of  separation  have  rendered  more  affec- 
tionate— the  friends,  whom  difference  of  employ- 
ment or  variety  of  pursuit  had  partially  estranged 
— the  lovers,  whose  impatient  hearts,  though 
blessed  with  frequent  and  delighted  intercourse, 
welcome  the  return  of  Thanksgiving  as  the  day 
when  hope  and  love  are  to  find  their  consumma- 
tion— the  day  which  is  forever  after  to  be  more 


THANKSGIVING. 


353 


sacred  in  their  calendar  than  all  the  year  besides. 
But  the  images  too  thickly  throng — “ too  fast 
they  crowd/’  for  the  powers  of  description.  In 
the  midst  of  the  gay  and  glorious  assembly,  are 
the  father,  the  mother,  the  patriarch  bowed  with 
years,  and  she  who  has  been  the  nurse  of  genera- 
tions, partaking  of  the  general  joy  and  congratu- 
lation, nor  murmuring  that,  while  such  a scene 
engages  and  employs  their  faculties,  the  wheels 
of  time  do  not  more  rapidly  bring  on  the  promised 
period  of  translation  to  another  and  more  endur- 
ing heaven. 

An  anonymous  modern  writer  has  beautifully 
said — u There  are  moments  in  existence,  which 
comprise  the  power  of  years — as  thousands  of 
roses  are  contained  in  a few  drops  of  their 
essence.”  The  remark  is  no  more  beautiful  than 
just.  I once  witnessed  an  incident  which  made 
me  feel  its  truth,  though  long  before  the  senti- 
ment itself  was  written.  In  one  of  the  largest 
villages  in  the  eastern  part  of  Connecticut,  a 
woman  was  left  a widow,  with  ten  children,  all 
but  one  of  whom  were  under  twenty  years  of 
age.  The  family  had  once  enjoyed  a compe- 
tence, and  looked  forward  to  years  of  ease  and 
plenty.  Toward  the  close  of  the  revolutionary 
war,  the  father,  thinking  to  make  a lucrative 
speculation,  disposed  of  a large  and  profitable 
stock  in  trade,  and  received  in  payment  what  at 
the  time  was  called  cash,  but  which  turned  out 
shortly  to  be  worthless  paper — bills  of  the  old 
30* 


354 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


“ Continental  Currency.”  These  bills  were  laid 
up  in  his  desk,  and  soon  began  to  depreciate  in 
value.  The  deterioration  went  on  from  day  to 
day,  and  in  a few  months  the  bubble  burst,  and 
the  fund  which  had  been  hoarded  to  educate  a 
family  would  not  buy  them  a breakfast.  At  this 
moment  the  father  died.  I will  not  trace  the 
history  of  this  family  through  its  days  of  destitu- 
tion and  poverty.  It  is  sufficient  to  state  that  the 
children  were  scattered  in  various  directions,  and 
engaged  in  various  employments,  till,  at  length, 
all  were  gone,  and  the  mother  left  alone,  dependent 
on  friends  for  a bed-room,  and  on  the  labor  of  her 
hands  for  her  own  subsistence — a precarious  de- 
pendence, for  to  other  misfortunes  had  succeeded 
the  loss  of  health.  In  process  of  time,  one  of  the 
sons,  having  completed  his  apprenticeship,  hired 
a house  for  his  mother,  and  lived  with  her,  while 
he  followed  the  occupation  of  a shoemaker. 
Thanksgiving  Day  came;  and  with  it  returned 
an  opportunity  to  indulge  in  its  peculiar  rites, 
which  they  had  not  enjoyed  for  ten  years.  The 
two  youngest  boys,  who  lived  at  a distance  from 
each  other  and  from  the  parent,  came  home 
to  keep  Thanksgiving.  The  festive  preparations 
were  completed — the  table  was  spread — around 
it  stood  a mother  and  three  sons,  who  had  not 
been  assembled  together  before,  within  the  remem- 
brance of  the  youngest  of  the  group.  The  grate- 
ful and  pious  mother  lifted  her  heart  and  her 
voice  to  the  widow’s  God,  and  uttered  a blessing 


THANKSGIVING. 


355 


on  that  kindness,  which  had  not  broken  the 
bruised  reed,  and  that  goodness,  which  had  re- 
membered all  her  sorrows,  and  permitted  her 
once  more  to  see  so  many  of  her  orphan  children 
assembled  about  her.  Her  expressions  of  grati- 
tude were  not  finished,  when  the  tide  of  affection 
and  thanksgiving,  which  swelled  the  heart,  over- 
powered the  physical  faculties ; her  bosom  heaved 
with  strong  convulsions,  her  utterance  was  choked, 
the  lips  could  not  relieve  by  words  the  emotions 
which  filled  the  soul ; — she  faltered,  and  would 
have  fallen,  but  that  the  elder  son  caught  and 
sustained  her  in  his  arms.  Tears  at  length  came 
to  her  relief,  and  the  earthquake  of  the  soul  was 
succeeded  by  those  grateful  and  affectionate  sen- 
sations, which  can  find  no  parallel  but  in  a 
mother’s  heart. 

It  is  near  forty  years  since  this  incident  took 
place.  The  scene  is  now  as  fresh  and  bright  to 
my  imagination  as  it  was  at  the  moment  of  its 
occurrence.  Eternity  cannot  obliterate  its  im- 
pression from  my  memory— and,  if  it  could,  I 
would  not  ask  for  eternity  on  that  condition — 
for  that  widow  was  my  mother. 


THE  PILGRIMS’  LAND. 


By  Charles  Sprague. 


Peace  to  the  mingling  dead  ! 

Beneath  the  turf  we  tread, 

Chief,  Pilgrim,  Patriot  sleep. 

All  gone  ! how  changed  ! and  yet  the  same, 

As  when  faith’s  herald  bark  first  came 
In  sorrow  o’er  the  deep. 

Still  from  his  noonday  height, 

The  sun  looks  down  in  light; 

Along  the  trackless  realms  of  space, 

The  stars  still  run  their  midnight  race ; 

The  same  green  valleys  smile,  the  same  rough  shore 
Still  echoes  to  the  same  wild  ocean’s  roar  ; — 

But  where  the  bristling  night-wolf  sprang 
Upon  his  startled  prey, 

Where  the  fierce  Indian’s  war-cry  rang 
Through  many  a bloody  fray, 

And  where  the  stern  old  Pilgrim  prayed 
In  solitude  and  gloom, 

Where  the  bold  Patriot  drew  his  blade, 

And  dared  a patriot’s  doom — 

Behold  ! in  liberty’s  unclouded  blaze, 

We  lift  our  heads,  a race  of  other  days. 


THE  PILGRIMS’  LAND. 


357 


All  gone ! the  wild  beast’s  lair  is  trodden  out ; 
Proud  temples  stand  in  beauty  there ; 

Our  children  raise  their  merry  shout, 

Where  once  the  death-whoop  vexed  the  air. 
The  Pilgrim — seek  yon  ancient  place  of  graves, 
Beneath  that  chapel’s  holy  shade ; 

Ask,  where  the  breeze  the  long  grass  waves, 
Who,  who  within  that  spot  are  laid : 

The  Patriot — go,  to  fame’s  proud  mount  repair  ; 
The  tardy  pile,  slow  rising  there, 

With  tongueless  eloquence  shall  tell 
Of  them  who  for  their  country  fell. 

All  gone  ! ’t  is  ours,  the  goodly  land. 

Look  round — the  heritage  behold ; 

Go  forth — upon  the  mountains  stand, 

Then,  if  ye  can,  be  cold. 

See  living  vales  by  living  waters  blessed, 

Their  wealth  see  earth’s  dark  caverns  yield, 
See  ocean  roll,  in  glory  dressed, 

For  all  a treasure,  and  round  all  a shield  : 

Hark  to  the  shouts  of  praise 
Rejoicing  millions  raise ; 

Gaze  on  the  spires  that  rise, 

To  point  them  to  the  skies, 

Unfearing  and  unfeared  ; 

Then,  if  ye  can,  oh,  then  forget 
To  whom  ye  owe  the  sacred  debt — 

The  Pilgrim  race  revered  ! 

The  men  who  set  faith’s  burning  lights 
Upon  these  everlasting  heights, 

To  guide  their  children  through  the  years  of  time ; 


358 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


The  men  that  glorious  law  who  taught, 
Unshrinking  liberty  of  thought, 

And  roused  the  nations  with  the  truth  sublime. 

Descendants  of  a twice-recorded  race  ! 

Long  may  ye  here  your  lofty  lineage  grace. 

’T  is  not  for  you  home’s  tender  tie 
To  rend,  and  brave  the  waste  of  waves; 
’T  is  not  for  you  to  rouse  and  die, 

Or  yield  and  live  a line  of  slaves. 

The  deeds  of  danger  and  of  death  are  done  : 
Upheld  by  inward  power  alone, 
Unhonored  by  the  world’s  loud  tongue, 
’T  is  yours  to  do  unknown, 

And  then  to  die  unsung. 

To  other  days,  to  other  men  belong 
The  penman’s  plaudit  and  the  poet’s  song  ; 
Enough  for  glory  has  been  wrought ; 

By  you  be  humbler  praises  sought ; 

In  peace  and  truth  life’s  journey  run, 

And  keep  unsullied  what  your  Fathers  won. 

Take  then  my  prayer,  Ye  dwellers  of  this  spot  ! 
Be  yours  a noiseless  and  a guiltless  lot. 

I plead  not  that  ye  bask 
In  the  rank  beams  of  vulgar  fame  ; 

To  light  your  steps  I ask 
A purer  and  a holier  flame. 

No  bloated  growth  I supplicate  for  you, 

No  pining  multitude,  no  pampered  few  ; 

’T  is  not  alone  to  coffer  gold, 

Nor  spreading  borders  to  behold  ; 


THE  PILGRIMS7  LAND. 


359 


’T  is  not  fast-swelling  crowds  to  win, 

The  refuse-ranks  of  want  and  sin. 

This  be  the  kind  decree  : 

Be  ye  by  goodness  crowned  ; 

Revered,  though  not  renowned ; 

Poor,  if  Heaven  will,  but  Free  ! 

Free  from  the  tyrants  of  the  hour, 

The  clans  of  wealth,  the  clans  of  power, 

The  coarse,  cold  scorners  of  their  God ; 

Free  from  the  taint  of  sin, 

The  leprosy  that  feeds  within, 

And  free,  in  mercy,  from  the  bigot’s  rod. 

So,  when  our  children  turn  the  page, 

To  ask  what  triumphs  marked  our  age, 

What  we  achieved  to  challenge  praise, 

Through  the  long  line  of  future  days, 

This  let  them  read,  and  hence  instruction  draw : 

“ Here  were  the  Many  blessed, 

Here  found  the  virtues  rest, 

Faith  linked  with  love,  and  liberty  with  law ; 

Here  industry  to  comfort  led ; 

Her  book  of  light  here  learning  spread  ; 

Here  the  warm  heart  of  youth 
Was  wooed  to  temperance  and  to  truth  ; 

Here  hoary  age  was  found, 

By  wisdom  and  by  reverence  crowned. 

No  great  but  guilty  fame 

Herelkindled  pride,  that  should  have  kindled  shame  ; 
These  chose  the  better,  happier  part, 

That  poured  its  sunlight  o’er  the  heart, 

That  crowned  their  homes  with  peace  and  health  ; 
And  weighed  heaven’s  smile  beyond  earth’s  wealth ; 


360 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Far  from  the  thorny  paths  of  strife 
They  stood,  a Jiving  lesson  to  their  race, 

Rich  in  the  charities  of  life, 

Man  in  his  strength,  and  Woman  in  her  grace ; 

In  purity  and  love  their  pilgrim  road  they  trod, 

And  when  they  served  their  neighbor,  felt  they  served 
their  God.” 

This  be  our  story  then,  in  that  far  day, 

When  others  come  their  kindred  debt  to  pay  : 

In  that  far  day  ? — Oh  ! what  shall  be, 

In  this  dominion  of  the  free, 

When  we  and  ours  have  rendered  up  our  trust, 

And  men  unborn  shall  tread  above  our  dust  ? 

Oh  ! what  shall  be  ? — He,  He  alone, 

The  dread  response  can  make, 

Who  sitteth  on  the  only  throne, 

That  time  shall  never  shake ; 

Before  whose  all-beholding  eyes 
Ages  sweep  on,  and  empires  sink  and  rise. 

Then  let  the  song  to  Him  begun, 

To  Him  in  reverence  end  : 

Look  down  in  love,  Eternal  One, 

And  Thy  good  cause  defend  ; 

Here,  late  and  long,  put  forth  Thy  hand, 

To  guard  and  guide  the  Pilgrims’  land  ! 


Date  Due 


PS  549  * BA  B6  1837 


T h e B o s t o n b o a k <■ 


Bapst  Library 

Boston  College 
Chestnut  Hill,  Mass.  02167 


